


Estranged

by TheCookieOfDoom



Series: Estranged [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, Nogitsune Trauma, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sleepwalking, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski Leaves Beacon Hills, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 78,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Reeling from the aftermath of the Nogitsune, Stiles needs to get out of Beacon Hills with a desperation bordering on mania. He packs up his things and moves to stay with his estranged brother Mitch in New York. Stiles doesn't know how to act around the brother he’s never met, who doesn't know all about the supernatural crap Stiles has been mixed up in for the last few years. Except, it turns out the Nogitsune chose him for a reason, and Mitch knows more than he's letting on.





	1. Limbo

**Author's Note:**

> Not written for TWCAW, but finished because of it. For those of you that've gotten this far, thank you for giving this a chance! This fic is my pride and joy, and got way bigger than I was ever expecting (tens of thousands of words AND a sequel) and I hope you guys stick around for it <3

_Save him!_

"Mom!"

Mitch jolted up in bed, the tail end of a shout dying in his throat. The woman’s scream still echoed around him, resounding in his mind like the hollow tolling of an abandoned church bell. Haunting. Desolate. He got out of bed and went to stand by the window, pushing it open to take in deep lungfuls of the brisk fall air. Shaking hands gripped the sill.

His thoughts were a turbulent jumble of fuzzy images, sensations. Almost like memories, withered with age and faded at the edges like ancient photographs. An afterimage burned into the backs of his eyelids that disappeared the more he tried to focus on them.

A darkness so cold it seeped into his bones. Death, and pain, so much pain, building and building. And chaos. A fox, hunted by hounds—no, wolves. Wolves with glowing eyes chasing a black fox, getting close, snapping at its heels with too much gentleness--aiming to catch, subdue--only to be brought into its traps, one by one. Buzzing like flies, like the atmosphere before a lightning storm. Static. Klaxon sirens and fire and _hate,_ so strong it filled his lungs like smoke.

One thing stood out amongst the rest with crystal clarity. A teenage boy, strange and yet familiar.

Mitch was certain they had never met.

 

_Approximately 12 Weeks Later_

John stopped Stiles in front of security, hand tight on his thin shoulder. Stiles felt like a bird, hollow-boned and brittle. When Stiles turned to look at him, his father's face was pained. "Are you sure about this?" He asked. _Say no,_ he thought.

Stiles offered his father a wan smile, more a grimace than anything else. He couldn't remember the last time he’d smiled. Not since before that _thing_ was inside of him, controlling him, contorting him.

"Yeah, dad, I'm sure." John still didn't look convinced, uneasy at the thought of Stiles across the country, alone, in a city he's never been to with a man he’s never met.

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Come on, let's go home, we can figure something else out, maybe I can get a job transfer somewhere else—"

"Dad, stop." Stiles put his hand over his father's, squeezing reassuringly. His voice broke, quiet, like glass shattering. Like the twang of a katana falling to the snow-covered ground, like sacrifice, like—Stiles took a deep breath to steady himself, steeling himself in his decision. He knew that this was what was best for him. Getting out of Beacon Hills wouldn't magically _fix_ him—he wasn't naïve—but it would give him room to breathe. To hopefully heal.

But his dad was still needed there. He could do things, a Sheriff in the know with all of the supernatural. He had the chance to really help people, whereas Stiles… he just got people killed. So he forced himself to bear his teeth and smile, trying to make himself believe it as he said, "Everything is going to be okay."

"You don't even _know_ him." Stiles shrugged.

"This is my chance to get to, then." He looked over his shoulder to where TSA was waiting, a sluggishly moving line of people lost in their own worlds, going about their lives. How many of them knew about the supernatural, he wondered? How many of them were something other than human? A handful of years ago, he was one of them. Oblivious to the world around him, hiding behind the curtain. Some days, he wished he could be one of them again. He never could decide if it was safer to be oblivious to the danger all around, going about life at his own leisure. Or if it was better to get involved, try and save people, himself. "It's going to be okay," he repeated.

"Promise me you'll call as soon as you land."

"I will, dad."

"And check in with me every day, so that I know you're safe. And if you need anything, _anything,_ ” his voice hitched, _“_ you don't hesitate to call me. Alright?"

"Alright."

John's expression turned to something ugly and painful. Rain clouds gathered in his stormy blue eyes, threatening to fall. He pulled Stiles close, enveloping him in a suffocating, wonderful hug. The last they would have for a while. Stiles let go of his luggage to hug his father just as tightly, face buried in his shoulder. His eyes stung, prickling with unshed tears of his own, but he didn’t want to fall apart in front of his father. If he did he would never make it to the plane.

"I'm gonna miss you, son."

"Me too. But it's not forever. Just until I get my head straight."

"You be safe over there, you hear me? Stay out of trouble. You have those contacts Derek gave you, right? In case anything happens?"

"He wouldn't leave me alone until I had all the local alphas names, numbers, and territories memorized." The two of them had skyped with each of the alphas whose territories he would be closest to to get them acquainted. It was tradition to formally introduce a pack member who would be staying in another’s territory. Stiles could have gotten away with it, being human, but Derek wouldn’t let him. In the case that something happened, he wanted to make sure Stiles had allies he could turn to.

The four alphas they’d talked to had all been very amicable, welcoming Stiles into their territory should he ever need anything. The alpha whose territory he was closest to was especially kind, motherly almost. She had taken Derek and Laura in when they came to the city, lost and afraid with nowhere to go, on the run from Kate. She extended that same kindness to Stiles, offering to allow him to stay with her pack. He was grateful, but didn't accept. He was trying to get away from the supernatural, not dive headfirst into it.

"Do you have everything you need? Laptop? Meds? Pillow?" John was just stalling at this point, they both knew it. Stiles couldn't bring himself to pull away yet, though; he didn't know when he would be coming home again. If he would ever be able to be in Beacon Hills without the paralyzing guilt and fear.

"I have everything."

"And if you don’t—"

"I'll call." This time when he smiled, it was genuine. Soft, barely there, but real. John smiled back, eyes creasing at the corners, and ruffled Stiles' already messy hair. He hadn't bothered showering after waking up at 4am, settling for running his fingers through yesterday's hair gel to push it into some semblance of order. It didn't work. It would hardly be the best first impression, rumpled and dressed in a t-shirt and sweats like he was still in Eichen, but it was the best he could manage.

There was nothing else to say, no more questions John could ask. Still they clung to each other, not ready to let go now that this was all becoming so real. Stiles pulled back enough to look at his father, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt like he would disappear if he didn't hold on. He memorized the lines of his father's face, John undoubtedly doing the same, until his eyes blurred too much for him to see.

"I have to go," he said, sniffling sharply to keep the tears at bay.

"Are you absolutely sure about this, Stiles?" John asked one last time, voice tight.

"Yes," Stiles said with as much conviction as he could muster. "This will be good for me, I think."

"Okay. Okay, son. Good luck." He gave Stiles one last squeezing hug.

"Thanks dad. I'll talk to you when I land." Stiles finally pulled away, rubbing his eyes with one hand and grabbing the handle of his luggage with the other. John gave him a watery smile, watching as Stiles went to join the ever-moving line for TSA, a snake slowly slithering along.

Stiles kept glancing back at his dad until he was through, and finally had to weave his way through the warren that was San Francisco International to find his gate, losing sight of his dad.

***

It was still almost two hours before the flight was set to leave. Between his anxiety and not knowing how long it would take to pull himself away from his father, he’d wanted to get there early. Stiles wandered aimlessly through the shops and stands, drifted past cafes and restaurants and prodded at the idea of eating something. Breakfast had been a challenge too great to surmount, but he’d managed a granola bar to appease his father. That only served to show John just how much Stiles needed to get away; the town was eating him up from the inside, leaving his once vibrant child a shade of himself.

The inside of the airport was hazy and timeless. Big windows spanned the walls that branched off towards the different gates, but in the heart of the terminal Stiles was surrounded by artificial fluorescent lighting, leaving patrons translucent and intangible. A man’s eyes flashed red as he walked past a neon kiosk. Stiles jolted, watched him continue walking, talking into his phone like dozens of other businessmen in suits. He wasn’t a werewolf. There was no reason he couldn’t be, but Stiles told himself it was the truth and shook off the inhuman glow as nothing more than a trick of the light.

There was a beauty store across from where Stiles stood; a woman with fae-like features was selling ornate glass bottles of rich perfume. The man speaking to her was entranced, a gold wedding band glinting on his finger. He was buying a bottle for his wife whom he was flying home to see, but from the way he looked at the saleswoman he wasn’t thinking of her at all.

A small bookstore caught Stiles’ eye and he walked inside, trailing his fingers along the backs of the spines. The paper and hard covers were supple under his touch, caressed by a thousand fingers before his, lost souls searching for words to fill the void inside.

The bookstore had a small comic section. Stiles picked up the first batman comic he saw and flipped mindlessly through the pages. The words bled together, rearranged themselves into something new and unrecognizable, letters drifting apart into a jumble of dashes and curves. The pictures were nice though, slashes from a brush over paper in blacks and blues, yellows and white. A familiar landscape made alien as the colors seeped together. When red splashed over the next page Stiles flipped the thin book shut with a snap, startling the little boy next to him.

The mother frowned at him. Stiles put his comic back and shuffled away into an unoccupied corner of the shop. He watched the boy pick up the comic he had abandoned, looking through it and excitedly showing his mother, acting out the scenes. It made him want to smile, and also cry.

After a few minutes the mother checked her watch and ushered the boy away, taking him by the hand and leading him out of the shop. It was time to board their plane, or would be soon. Stiles felt like he’d lost something as he watched them go. Once they were gone he got up and retrieved the comic, along with two others he didn’t already own, then dug in his pocket for some cash.

Once paid for, Stiles stuffed the three comics into his backpack and checked his phone for the time. Another forty-five minutes until his flight. Soon enough that he could start the walk to his gate. Once there he checked in at one of the little kiosks--grateful not to have to confront the stewardess--and went to settle down under one of the big windows. The light was muted and grey, diffused by the heavy cloud cover. It had been raining when he and his dad drove into the city. John was tense for the entire drive, cautiously hopeful a storm would come in bad enough to delay the flight.

Stiles thought about texting his friends, but they were all in school right now. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble for texting in class. Instead Stiles closed his eyes and listened to the light rain pitter-pattering at his back, letting it lull him.

When the stewardess finally called his gate sometime later, Stiles pulled himself up and slowly made his way over, boarding pass in hand. The plane boarded slowly, people too apathetic to be in much of a rush. He was in economy, between the window and an elderly woman with cat headphones and too much perfume. Stiles didn't mind. Roses smelled better than death, after all.

***

Music drowning out the hum of the plane, Stiles pulled up his last conversation thread with Mitch, part of him still unable to believe that all of this was real. Like it was another trick his mind was playing on him, making him believe there was someone waiting for him in New York, when really there was nothing. He would get there, alone and abandoned in the city that never sleeps, with nowhere to go.

**Mitch**

_Where am I meeting you?_

**Stiles**

_Terminal 8. I land at 6pm_

**Mitch**

_Got it, I'll be waiting_

Stiles tapped the side of his phone with his fingertips, humming thoughtfully along to Lana Del Rey's Dark Paradise. Ever since _it_ happened, he's found the song darkly satisfying, his life having turned into a twisted version of it with the Nogitsune in his body. His very own dark paradise, haunting him even now.

The Nogitsune may have controlled him, made him do all of those things, but Stiles can’t deny how good it felt to lose control. That was another part of the reason he needed to get out of Beacon Hills. His friends could never understand how powerful, how _good_ it felt while he was possessed, even if it was all an illusion. The Nogitsune played its games, and Stiles had been a willing participant. He would never wish harm on his friends, but the rush from watching the Nogitsune put them in danger, the stakes high as Stiles fought to beat it’s clever machinations, was _exhilarating._

Stiles bit deeply into his bottom lip until he tasted copper. The pain chased away his thoughts, leaving his mind sharp and clear in its wake, bringing him back to the self he used to recognize. Tearing himself away from bitter memories, Stiles tapped out a quick text to Mitch.

**Stiles**

_Taking off now_

**Mitch**

_See you in a few hours_

The quick response warmed him. He was so used to waiting forever for replies from his friends, going ignored if the situation wasn't life-threatening. But not Mitch.

Seeing a stewardess glaring at him, Stiles sheepishly turned his phone onto airplane mode and closed his eyes, settling in for the long flight ahead. 


	2. Schrodinger's Brother Part 1

As it turns out, Stiles was not made for flying. By the time they landed in JFK, he was ready to claw his skin off if he didn't get off the plane _now._ Stuck trapped against the window, the guy on the aisle seat in no hurry to move, Stiles was forced to wait half an hour before he was grabbing his carryon from the overhead compartment and booking it, grateful for the slightly-fresher air of the airport, stale with the thousands of bodies moving through it.

It was chilly when he stepped from the airplane onto the platform, cold air gusting through the gaps. Stiles shivered, dubiously eyeing the snow outside; he was not used to weather this cold. Beacon Hills had only gotten snow maybe twice in his memory, their winters consisting mostly of a chill in the air and blessed rain. Nothing compared to the muddy grey slush on the tarmac outside.

Luckily John had thought to look at the weather in New York this time of year and acted accordingly, making sure Stiles had warm enough clothes to survive. But Stiles foolishly neglected to dress for the weather like his dad suggested. It was going to be a cold trip, with his thin sweatpants and t-shirt, with just a hoodie to keep him warm. It wasn’t as worn in as the rest of his clothes, stiff and impersonal and still smelling like the store it’d been purchased from. Stiles’ other hoodies were all bloodied and ruined.

Stiles followed the crowd to baggage claim, staring blankly at the screen, searching for his flight on the board of tiny blinking numbers and letters. He was all the way at the end, following slowly behind the crowd instead of trying to rush through. There was a sort of anonymity in this airport, unlike the hospital. No one deliberately avoided eye contact and moved out of his way, the crowd didn’t part for him like the Red Sea before Moses. Several people ran into him in their rush to get wherever they were going. Stiles let himself melt into the background of their lives, jostled by the crowd, _ignored,_ and simply watched _._

Standing in the baggage claim waiting to find his suitcase, Stiles felt like a ghost, in the world but not a part of it. Everything around him was bright and loud, a chaotic din of activity in the city that never sleeps. Everyone was absorbed in their own worlds, self-centered and oblivious. Stiles watched and waited for just over twelve minutes, finding himself counting the seconds as the world threatened to drift out of focus around him, tapping his fingers against his thighs one by one.

_Pinkie, ring, middle, index, thumb, thumb, index, middle, ring, pinkie. Rinse, repeat._

Fluorescent lights flickered at the edges of his vision, an echo of a horror game he once played - _lived_. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, thinking _Croatoan, Croatoan, Croatoan._ But it didn’t work for Violet and it didn’t work any better for him.

When he opened his eyes again Stiles spotted his suitcase, olive drab with highlighter green panels on the side. His father found it marked down for a third of the price at Ross specifically for this trip; they didn’t travel. Couldn’t when John worked so much.

It stood out among the endless sea of generic black luggage going around the conveyor belt, different only in size. He pushed through the crowd of waiting, dead-eyed people, suddenly needing to _get away._ Stiles wrenched his suitcase off the conveyor belt, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, and dragged himself away to an empty space in the airport where he could finally breathe again.

 

Stiles had never seen his brother before, didn’t know what to expect of him now, as he began searching the faceless crowd, feeling somewhat like he was looking for a tinder date. He’d seen pictures of Mitch, of course, enough to recognize him, but those could be deceiving. Especially compared with seeing his brother in the flesh. Withholding any expectations, Stiles slogged his way from one end of their airport to the next. Occasionally a gust of cold wind from the many exits would freeze him to his core when he passed, the automatic doors sliding open, and he’d pull his hoodie around himself with a shivering hand. He ached for the warmth of home, his father’s embrace, his mother’s laugh. They were unattainable in anything but his memories.

Stiles found Mitch in one of the little cafes that littered the airport, and his first thought was that he was handsome. The pictures he’d scene didn’t do him justice; Stiles had to take a moment to just admire his brother, standing leaning against a high table that would be better placed at a club with two paper travel cups beside his elbow. He looked relaxed, just another part of the crowd as he scrolled through something on his phone, and yet Stiles’ focus was drawn instinctively to him before he’d even realized who he was looking at.

Despite how casual he looked, there was something about him that made the back of Stiles’ neck prickle, some primal instinct tell him he was looking at a predator. His leather jacket and heavy boots did nothing to detract from that, and Stiles was reminded of when he first met Derek in the preserve. Derek never quite pulled off the look, though. Underneath it all, he was always just a scared kid in over his head, trying to bully teenagers into listening to him. The people around Mitch gave him a wide berth, like they felt the same subconscious, nervous tingle that Stiles had running down his spine.

Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if there was a body hiding in his trunk. (He made a note to check.)

Strangely, Stiles didn’t want to run away. His fear response had never been the most accurate thing. Half the trouble he got into came from looking for it, and the other half came from diving in head first. There was something to be said for a good rush of adrenaline to make things so much clearer, more vivid, grounded in the moment.

Then Stiles remembered that it was his brother he was currently ogling, and felt sick with himself even as a dark and crooning voice, sounding so much like the worst parts of himself, whispered to him, _only half._

Mitch looked up at just the right moment to catch Stiles’ staring, giving him a once over as he straightened to his full height. There were several inches between them in his favor; Stiles could see that even from the short distance that separated them. He must have found Stiles wanting, because the look he leveled Stiles with as he closed the distance was unimpressed.

"You know it's snowing, right?" Were the first words Stiles Stilinski heard from his half-brother, dripping with all the sarcasm his current clothing deserved. Stiles cringed, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his thin hoodie. The scent of starch and factory dye was thick in his nostrils, and he felt suddenly, wholly, inadequate standing before Mitch now.

Stiles chewed his bottom lip, fighting not to fidget as he said, "I noticed." Mitch rolled his eyes, but shrugged out of his jacket all the same. He held it out to Stiles, who was too surprised to take it.

"Here. You'll freeze."

"Thank you," Stiles mumbled, taking the jacket after a moment's hesitation. The leather was supple and warm under his fingertips, clearly well-loved. When he dropped his backpack to put it on it didn't swallow him, but it did fit a size or so too big. He was certain he didn't look half as intimidating as Mitch did, probably looking about as fierce as a kitten, or a kid trying on their parents’ clothes for the first time.

Mitch waited for him to put the jacket on before handing him his blessedly hot drink. Stiles wrapped his fingers around the paper travel cup gratefully, warming them. Not even outside yet, and they were already stiffening up from the cold. Back in California it had only been 65 degrees out. Stiles would hazard to guess that it was easily below 30 here.

"I have no idea what you like, so it's just coco," Mitch said.

"I like coco." Stiles followed Mitch out of the airport and across to the neighboring parking structure. He was especially grateful for the hot chocolate--and jacket--when they got outside to feel the full force of the crisp November cold. Snow was piled up along the ledge in little mountains, slow to melt in the shade as the day stretched on, freezing again as night fell and temperatures dropped. Mitch looked unbothered, like it barely affected him and the passage of time meant nothing.

"How are you not _freezing_?" Stiles asked. Mitch was in layers, a hoodie and at least two shirts, but they didn't look that warm. He just shrugged, glancing at Stiles.

"You get used to it." Stiles disagreed. He didn't know how anyone could get used to this. He kept that thought to himself though, quietly sipping his coco as he followed Mitch to his car.

Stiles was never very interested in cars, perfectly content with his busted-up jeep. So he had no idea what Mitch's was, but it was sleek and came to life with a throaty purr. Stiles didn’t want to know what the price tag on it was, he was afraid to touch anything and risk dirtying the upholstery as it was. When he opened the door he pulled his sleeve over his fingers just in case. Stiles wondered just what kind of work Mitch did to be able to afford it. Belatedly, he realized he didn’t check the trunk for any unfortunate victims when Mitch put his suitcase back there. _That was probably intentional,_ Stiles thought darkly, watching Mitch over the rim of his cup.

"It's a long drive back to my place. You can go to sleep if you want," Mitch said once they were settled and the heater was on high, quickly warming up the car. Far faster than Roscoe, who always took at least ten minutes to cease turning him into an approximation of a human popsicle. Stiles tried not to obviously hold his hands up to the vent, but the temptation was hard to resist when he felt colder than a corpse.

But logically, Stiles knew nothing could thaw out the cold that truly plagued him.

"I'm not tired." Mitch gave him a doubtful look. Stiles knew how exhausted he looked. On the off-chance Mitch was a serial killer, Stiles didn’t want to let his guard down just yet.

"Suit yourself."

***

The drive was spent in silence, broken only by the muted notes of classic rock. Stiles looked out the window and watched the city pass him by in a flurry of blurred lights, like long exposure in a camera. They stretched out into long ribbons, then came to an abrupt end as Mitch stopped at a red light, the ribbons falling apart around him.

An internet café caught Stiles’ attention, it’s big windows showing off the 80’s techno décor inside. The neon lights were on, but the inside was empty, devoid of life, full of rows of blinking screens. The light turned green. Stiles kept watching the café in the side mirror, tried not to look at himself and the way the lights played over his gaunt features.

There was no moon, no stars to light the night sky, obscured by thick clouds. Not that it mattered. New York City was lit from within, from street lights to cars whipping down avenues like synapses traveling along neural pathways, steadily pulsing along, keeping the wheel turning.

The lights glinted off the slush, filthy and muddy where it littered the gutters, trod on by a million uncaring New Yorkers. It was nothing like the winter wonderland Stiles imagined, flying over pristine snow-capped mountains to get here.

The city was beautiful, with its towering skyscrapers glimmering like gems, reflecting its vain beauty back at itself with the polished glass mirrors of the windows. It was a façade, trapping you in reflections within reflections within reflections - an inescapable hall of mirrors impossible not to get lost in. It hid the truth behind a beautiful exterior, a porcelain face hiding a rotten core.

Stiles closed his eyes, leaning his head against the frosted glass of the window. He was so cold, he hardly felt it.

***

“Watch your step, it can get icy,” Mitch warned before Stiles got out. While Stiles was unfolding from the car and stretching his legs, Mitch was getting his suitcase from the back; once again preventing Stiles from looking back there, closing the trunk and locking up the car before Stiles had a chance to peek.

Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect from the plain red brick-and-mortar. It wasn’t outwardly stunning with the same industrial architecture as the rest of the east-coast, different from the more Spanish-villa and Japanese styles he was used to, but not unique by any means. It looked like all the other buildings they’d passed to get here.

Once inside the lobby, however, the apartment was anything but plain. It was sleek and modernized inside, with soft classical music playing through unseen speakers. Stiles gaped at the high ceiling, hanging from which was a glittering chandelier with thousands of glass crystals to reflect the lights, tiny prisms casting slivers of rainbows. He had to stop and admire the building for a moment, but Mitch kept walking, forcing Stiles to rush after him when he realized he was standing alone.

"It was a tuberculosis ward in the 1800s, then a textiles factory. Then it was converted to apartments in the twenties," Mitch told him in the elevator when he noticed the overwhelmed look in his eyes.  He sounded bored, unimpressed by the building's history, leaning against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s been remodeled and updated a few times over the years, floors added, but a lot of the structure and fixtures are original.”

"The rent in this place must be through the roof." Mitch only hummed. Stiles side-eyed him, leaning his shoulder into the wall farthest from Mitch. "Be honest—are you a hit man?"

"Yes." His tone was so casual, Stiles was willing to bet even Derek would be hard pressed to tell if Mitch was lying or not. Stiles certainly couldn't. He chewed his bottom lip, self-consciously fidgeting with the sleeve of his borrowed jacket. Mitch didn't offer up anything else to break the silence, seemed perfectly content in it. Stiles couldn't take it. He’d never done well when left to the silence of his mind, babbling random facts to fill it, leaving space for nothing else to creep out of the shadows. Now he couldn't think of a single thing to say to this stranger. He was forced to endure the quiet as it stretched into eternity, broken only by the pleasant elevator music that grated on his ears, metal on metal. When the elevator finally dinged to signal their floor, it was a godsend.

As extravagant as the lobby had been, Mitch's apartment was modest by comparison. He unlocked the door and held it open for Stiles politely, flicking on the lights after he was through, bathing the apartment in light. It was nice, but cold, with sharp edges of granite and cool earth tones. The metal and glass made the interior look like something out of a high-end minimalist catalogue. Unlived in. Stiles got the impression Mitch didn't spend much time at home.

Clearly Mitch wasn't the sort to spend a lot of time entertaining, because the "tour" was abysmal.

"Kitchen and living room you can see. My room is at the back of that hall; yours is the first door on the left, bathroom's across from it, and that," Mitch gestured to a closed door leading out of the living room, "is the office, where you can find me most of the time when I'm not at work. If you need anything, ask. Otherwise, make yourself at home."

"Okay."

"Great. I've got work to do, so don't be surprised if you don't see me for the next few hours."

Just like that Stiles was alone, the big empty apartment looming before him as he stood between the living room and kitchen. He watched Mitch’s retreating back, wanting suddenly to call him back. Then the door to the office closed behind him with a _snick_ and his chance was gone. Ear-ringing silence settled around Stiles like a heavy, familiar blanket.

Stiles picked up his suitcase and made his way to the room Mitch had designated as his. It was nicer than he expected, easily bigger than his room back home, maybe even the size of his dad's. The bed looked freshly made and welcoming after the long hours of traveling. Stiles wanted to fall face first into it and sleep for a week. He and sleep hadn't been on friendly terms for the past few months.

Stiles left his suitcase at the foot of the bed and dropped his backpack beside it, landing with a soft 'thud' on the thick rug. Stiles kicked off his shoes; it was thick and soft beneath his feet, even through his socks. The apartment was pleasantly warm but did nothing to ease his ever-present chill. He scrunched his toes in the rug before falling back onto the bed. It was as comfortable as it looked. He sank into the mattress—plush memory foam forming to the sharp angles of his body—staring up at the ceiling. It was the same color as the walls, a muted sage-y blue, making him think of a stormy sky. The whole room was colored in hazy blues and foggy greys, like storm clouds gathering over the ocean.

Stiles rolled onto his side to look out the large window that filled one wall, bracketed on either side by a set of curtains and sheer drapes. The moon was hanging low in the sky, and the city was waking up, lights turning on one by one, a myriad of warm colors, far away. They made Stiles suddenly, unbearably sad. His missed Beacon Hills where the nights were quiet when the pack wasn't hunting the newest threat. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone by association, where most people could recognize Stiles on sight, thanks to his father.

He missed his shabby little house with the mismatched furniture always bought on sale, and marks in the hallway to track his height over the years. The stained rugs and scuffed up wood floors. The crack in his bedroom window from the time he almost hit a baseball through it that his dad had never gotten around to fixing. He missed the way his clothes always smelled a little bit like his mom, because they never stopped using her favorite detergent after she died.

Homesickness gripped Stiles' heart, and he pulled the jacket he still wore tighter around himself, strangely comforted by the woodsy scent of Mitch's cologne clinging to the supple leather and smooth lining. He buried his face in the collar to block out the city lights, eyes clenched shut, but the darkness was no better. Terrible things lurked there, in the dark parts of his mind, hiding, waiting to be released. He could escape Beacon Hills and all of its horrors, but he could never escape his own shadow.

***

When it became evident that sleep would not be happening, Stiles groaned in frustration and sat up in bed. Maybe Mitch was done with work by now? Stiles hoped he was, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and padding out into the apartment. To his disappointment, the living room was empty and the door to the office shut tight. The light was on, filtering out under the door. His brother was still in there, presumably hard at work.

Stiles changed courses and flopped down on the unblemished, unrumpled sofa instead, with the intent of figuring out how to work the flat screen across from him. Mitch seemed to have a collection of books instead of DVDs beneath it, but hopefully he at least had Netflix.

Just as he was searching through the apps—his first time playing with a SmartTV, it was very exciting—Stiles heard raised voices from the office. Or one raised voice, rather. Mitch wasn’t yelling, but Stiles could hear the frustration in his tone, muffled through the door. Normally Stiles would have left it alone. But there was something off in the way Mitch spoke that caught his attention, his words jumbled and strange. Unintelligible, and not just because of the door between them.

Curious, Stiles got up and crept towards the door. Mitch was speaking at a normal level again, making it even harder to pick up the conversation. Stiles put his ear up to the door, able to just barely make out the words.

Only, he couldn’t understand them.

A scowl creasing his brows, Stiles continued listening, certain he was mistaken at first. But he wasn’t. Mitch was speaking in some harsh-sounding language, words grating and tone clipped. _What the hell?_

Experience taught Stiles to be wary when faced with strangers speaking in tongues. Vague memories of Japanese he couldn’t understand but somehow did sent a shiver down his spine.

Mitch said his goodbyes and hung up. Stiles heard him coming towards the door and recoiled, running back to his room. His heart pounded in his chest as he threw the door shut, catching it at the last moment to quietly ease it closed.

 

Stiles pulled his laptop out of his suitcase and jumped onto the bed. Mitch knocked on the door not two minutes later.

“Yeah?” Stiles cleared his throat, tried to even out the shakiness. “Um, come in?” His brother pushed open the door but didn’t enter. Stiles was strangely reminded of a wolf unwilling to enter another’s den.

"I have to go out for a while."

"Where?" Stiles asked, grateful and eager to latch onto any diversion.

"On an errand." Stiles nodded, but Mitch didn't leave like he expected. He just stood there, looking at Stiles like he was waiting for something. When Stiles didn't do anything, he raised his eyebrows pointedly and said, "I'm going to need my jacket back."

"Oh! Right, yeah, probably." Flushing in embarrassment, Stiles quickly shrugged it off and held it out to Mitch. Their hands brushed for a moment as he finally crossed the threshold into the bedroom to take it; Stiles snatched his back like he was burned when that darkness in him coiled up in satisfaction, telling to him to reach out for more and _take_ —

"I don’t know when I’ll be back, so don't worry about waiting up."

"Okay. Goodnight, then."

"Night."

Stiles followed Mitch out a few minutes later, now having the apartment to himself for the rest of the night. It felt weird to him that Mitch would just leave him there when they were practically strangers; what if Stiles tried to steal something and leave before he came back? Seemed likely, he was a troublesome teenager who would have a rap sheet longer than he was tall if his dad wasn't the sheriff.

 _And dozens of accounts of murder would be at the top of the list,_ a cruel voice whispered to him, raspy and too familiar.

"You're not real," Stiles said into the empty apartment. "I killed you."

There was no answer but instead a deafening silence. _Are you so sure?_ It seemed to ask. And that was the problem, wasn't it? How could he ever be sure the Nogitsune was _really_ gone, that the confrontation in the high school hadn't been just another game?

That was too much to think about at—he checked his phone—9 o'clock at night. Stiles pulled up his contacts list, searching for a distraction, and remembered he hadn't called his father yet. It would only be 6 o’clock in California; his father should be awake still, hopefully not too busy with work to answer. He immediately scrolled to his dad's number and called, wandering into the living room as he listened to the phone ring. One of the walls was almost entirely glass, showing off a gorgeous view of the city. So far below, it looked like an inversion of the night sky, the city lights a blanket of colored stars strewn across the ground, like a reflection in a pond.

"Stiles? Are you alright?"

"Yeah dad, I'm fine. Everything went without a hitch," he reassured, warmed by the worry in his dad's tone. Just hearing his father’s voice was enough to make some of the tension leak out of his shoulders.

"And Mitch?"

"I'm pretty sure he's not a serial killer." The jury was still out on that, but Stiles didn't get vibes that he was in any immediate danger (always a plus). He liked to think his sense for danger was pretty spot on, even if he didn’t always listen to it. Telling Scott when he first thought the nogitsune was him was proof enough of that.  "I'm at his apartment right now, it's really nice."

"Put him on the phone, I want to talk to him."

"Can't. He's out right now, said he had some errands."

" _What?_ You're telling me he left you alone?"

"Dad, come on. I'm seventeen, not seven. I can handle being alone for a few hours." It wasn't like he was coming to New York expecting they would be attached at the hip. Mitch had his own life, and Stiles was disrupting it by intruding like this. Stiles tried not to think about it; the more he did, the more he realized how terrible an idea this was. Mitch seemed like a very solitary person. The last thing he needed to deal with was a teenager with as many issues as Stiles had. Still, despite what he said, it would be nice not to be so alone, even if he couldn’t expect Mitch to drop everything and babysit him for the foreseeable future.

"I don't like the thought of you alone there."

"It's okay. I'm used to it, right?"

"Stiles."

 _Shit._ That was cruel. Stiles knew from the way John said his name that he'd hit a nerve, and it made him wilt, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean it like that." He had always been mean, but now he could be so thoughtlessly cruel. It was only worsened by his lack of filter, which seemed to disappear completely after everything happened.

"It's okay, Stiles. You're right. I haven't always been around for you. That's why I don't want you alone now. For God's sake, you've up and left everyone that cares about you, and I just—I don't like not knowing if you're okay."

"I am," Stiles said, even though they both knew it was a lie. He couldn't be farther from okay. He wouldn't have had to leave Beacon Hills in the first place if he was. “It’s pretty late over here, I think I’m going to head off to bed.”

“Okay. I love you, Stiles.”

“Talk to you later, dad.” Stiles hung up and slipped his phone back into his hoodie pocket, pulling away from the window to trudge back to his room. The view wasn’t so pretty anymore.

He didn’t bother with making himself dinner. His appetite was another thing he’d lost after the Nogitsune. Back home, his father had watched helplessly as Stiles withered away in front of him, getting sicklier by the day. In the beginning, he couldn't have known the true cause; that there was a malevolent spirit inside of Stiles, disregarding his body as nothing more than a tool, a host. After all, the Nogitsune didn't need Stiles to be alive, able to possess a corpse just as easily. In fact, it would be far easier if Stiles did die. There would be nothing left to fight it. And so it kept him awake for days at a time, starved him until he was thin and weak.

But after, if John thought Stiles was just going to _recover,_ start eating and sleeping like a normal human being again, he was sorely mistaken. Nightmares plagued him when he tried to sleep, and he jumped at shadows when he was awake, panicking at too-loud sounds and unexpected touches. A hand on his shoulder was enough to send him into the beginnings of a panic attack if John wasn't careful. But worst of all, whenever Stiles even thought of trying to eat, all he could think of was the bitter chocolate taste of so much pain and suffering, heady and tempting, even after all this time. He couldn't help but crave it even when the thought made his stomach turn. All of those people he had hurt to feed on, greedily drinking up their suffering like the sweetest wine. Now at least, there was no one he had to make excuses to when he didn’t want to eat.

Stiles stood just inside his room, eyeing his suitcase dubiously. It was exactly where he left it, sitting unpacked at the foot of the bed, waiting. He glanced at the closet, then back at his suitcase, and decided it could wait until the morning. Despite his nap earlier he was exhausted, even more so after talking with his father. All he could think about was curling up in bed and forgetting about the world for a while and all of the horrible things that came with being alive.

There was an air of helpless apathy that clung to Stiles like cheap cologne, had been ever since junior year, when everything in Beacon Hills just _kept happening_ and he was forced to accept that he was in over his head. Scott and Derek could heal, but Stiles was only human. There was a good chance that there would come a day when something happened to him; where he got shot, or clawed, or had his throat ripped out, or a million other grizzly ways to die. He could either accept that fact and move on with life, quietly waiting for the day when a monster would come to Beacon Hills and get a lucky shot in, or he could not accept it and leave behind everyone he loved. In the end, Stiles decided dying was something he could live with, as long as he kept his friends safe.

Then the Nogitsune happened, and in that snow-covered garden, with the cold weight of the katana in his hand, he decided he was ready. Death would come on his own terms: saving his friends—it was the best way to go, if he had to choose. Better than he deserved. Exactly what he'd always imagined for himself. He could already imagine his blood staining the pristine white snow.

Of course, none of it was real. Just another trick. He should have known by then not to trust a fox. They always fool you in the end.

Stiles' phone chimed, loud in the room, startling him. Heart jackrabbiting in his chest, he pulled it out to see who had texted him.

**Mitch**

_You okay?_

The question sent a shiver down Stiles' spine. He looked dubiously around the room, half expecting to see the blinking light of cameras in the corners, monitoring him like the one his dad had installed in his bedroom weeks ago.

**Mitch**

_Your dad called and said I shouldn’t have left you alone. I can come back if you need me to._

That was worse than if there were hidden cameras watching his every move. Face heating in embarrassment, Stiles tapped out a quick reply. He couldn't believe his dad had actually gone over his head like that. He never should have said Mitch was gone.

**Stiles**

_I'm fine._

**Mitch**

_You sure?_

**Stiles**

_Yeah._

_Dad's just overprotective, don't worry about me._

_Sorry he called you._

**Mitch**

_Don't worry about it. Let me know if you change your mind._

**Stiles**

_Will do._

Stiles didn't wait for a response, pulling up his dad's contact and glaring at it. His thumb hovered over the call button. He groaned in frustration and shut his phone off instead. It was humiliating that his dad had gone over him like that, calling to probably chew Mitch out for leaving Stiles alone. Never mind that he was almost an adult and had already practically raised himself, he could handle being on his own. Never mind that that wasn't true.

He crawled to the foot of the bed to get his backpack, taking out his earbuds and phone charger, both of which he plugged in. The dulcet tones of Lana Del Rey drowned out the loneliness and guided him to a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contact has been a little sparse, guys! Understandable, there wasn't a whole lot in the first chapter/prologue, but that's going to change from here on out. We're going to start getting to the meet of the fic, and I'd love to know what you think as the story goes on! I'm actually very proud of how this chapter came out, largely thanks to by wonderful beta who helped me rekindle my love for this fic, and there are many good things to come! (also, symbolism! symbolism everywhere! every word was deliberately and carefully chosen for Maximum Meaning)


	3. Schrodinger's Brother Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles begins to unravel a little more of the mystery around Mitch.

Stiles scrolled through his messages when he woke up in the morning, still feeling exhausted even as his phone announced that it was 10:16am. He was used to it by now, the bone deep weariness. Ever since _it_ was separated from him he couldn’t eat or sleep, couldn’t get warm. Even though it was gone—it _was_ gone, it had to be—Stiles still felt like his other half was sapping the life from him, growing stronger as he withered away.

There were no messages from Scott. Unsurprising, but Stiles still felt the necessary pang of hurt somewhere in his chest anyway. He didn’t expect a “good morning” text like they were dating or something, but an acknowledgement that he was gone would have been nice. His father had texted him good morning though, because of course he did. Lydia texted him as well to ask how his flight had gone. Stiles had to blink back unbidden tears when he saw her name lighting up the screen; she had barely spoken to him since Allison, couldn’t bring herself to look at him—not that he blamed her. It was impossible to look in the face of her tormentor and not falter. Stiles tried not to take it personally; he felt the same whenever he caught his reflection. But that short, simple text gave him hope. It made him feel like a freshman again, when even the slightest acknowledgement from his childhood crush would be enough to send him over the moon.

Stiles sent a short reply because he was no longer the boy who would gush over a handful of words, and Lydia responded in kind less than a minute later. Pathetically, Stiles found himself counting every heartbeat.

**Lydia**

_I’m glad you left._

Terse, simple. A lesser man would be insulted. The speed at which the reply was sent showed him Lydia still cared. It would be good for him to get away, for all of them. Stiles being out of the picture would hopefully give them all a chance to heal.

Stiles sent a longer text to his father confirming once again that he was alright, and had survived the night alone, then clicked his phone off and tossed it aside. His dad was sleeping by now, and probably wouldn’t respond for hours.

Stiles briefly considered getting out of bed, maybe making something for breakfast. The bed was comfortable though, molding to the shape of his body, holding him like a lover, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to move. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into the fluffy down pillow with an appreciative sigh. It would be so easy to just go back to sleep. He had no passing responsibilities, no homework, no drive to do anything. Free to laze around for as long as he wanted. It was liberating.

“I think I’m gonna take a self-care day,” Stiles hummed, nuzzling his face into the pillow like a cat. He had certainly earned it after the shitshow that was the last few weeks—months, _years_ —of his life.

He had no idea if Mitch was awake yet, or if he was even home. Maybe that’s why he was so keen on staying in bed. Then he wouldn’t have to find out, and could pretend he wasn’t alone. Schrodinger's brother, both there and not there until Stiles opened the door and went searching.

Languishing in the cool winter sun streaming through the window, Stiles didn’t quite manage to go to sleep, instead rhythmically swishing his leg from side to side over the cool silk sheets, like a pendulum. A knock on the door a little while later made him lift his head and look over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he called. Mitch pushed open the door, not seeming at all surprised to find Stiles still half-asleep.

“You planning to get up any time soon?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” was Stiles’ sheepish answer. Mitch rolled his eyes, probably thinking something less than flattering about teenagers.

“I’m making breakfast. You’ve got five minutes to get up if you want something, otherwise you’re on your own.”

“Yes, sir.” Mitch ducked back out of the room and Stiles was left wondering if he could stomach a meal. His stomach growled plaintively, reminding him he’s had nothing but a granola bar to appease his father in the last two days, just enough to keep him on his feet before his flight, and very little before that. Breakfast wouldn’t hurt, even if the thought did make him nauseous.

“It lives,” Mitch said when Stiles came slinking out, quirking a grin at him that Stiles half-heartedly returned.

“Debatable.” Stiles took a seat at the island, snagging an orange form the bowl of fruit in the middle, half-expecting it to be made of foam. Surprisingly the flesh had a good amount of give. Not too firm, but not overly soft, either. Just enough that it promised to be juicy when you took that first bite.

Across from him, Mitch was moving through the large kitchen with ease, gathering ingredients. Despite how pristine and untouched everything looked, he was clearly at home here. Then again, with a body like that there was no way he was eating out all the time unless he was a werewolf, and Stiles was pretty confident he’d already ruled that out. He was definitely more intimidating than all the werewolves Stiles knew though, and that was including the alpha pack.

“Is an omelet okay?” Mitch asked as he pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. Stiles picked at his unpeeled orange.

“Sure.” The eggs were set down next to a small gathering of herbs house in little glass jars.

Like the night before Mitch didn’t seem eager to fill the silence as he worked, whisking the eggs and herbs together and pouring them into the pan. Mitch was perfectly content but to Stiles it was deafening, the pristine surfaces suddenly nightmarish.

Like that endless white room in his mind where he played the Nogitsune for his friends’ lives, trying to outfox the fox. It was eerily silent in that nonexistent room, nothing for the sound to bounce off of as his voice was swallowed and his thoughts were dulled.

Stiles’ attention snapped to Mitch when he realized his brother was waving a hand in front of his face.

“You alright?” Mitch asked. “You spaced out there for a minute.” Longer than a minute, apparently. There was an omelet cooling on the plate in front of him, another sizzling in the pan. Stiles felt the back of his neck heat, shoulders rising up to his ears.

“Yeah, sorry. Probably just low blood sugar or something.” Stiles tried to laugh off Mitch’s concern. Despite not looking convinced he didn’t press the issue, instead turning away to dash cheese into his omelet and fold it in. Stiles picked at his own with a fork, feeling like he could stomach it even less now than before.

***

During the daytimes Stiles tried to fade into the background of his brother’s life. Mitch made it easy for him, didn’t sit around waiting for Stiles to want to go do something, didn’t pressure him. Thank god for that, because Stiles was perfectly content to stay inside the apartment, if not burrowed in his room. Stiles spent most of his time in there, but when it came time for lunch he took the opportunity to explore the apartment a little bit.

The door leading into the office was closed. There were no locks, and Mitch hadn’t said he wasn’t allowed in. Still, Stiles gave it a wide berth, skirting past it. Around the corner was a large open room, with large east-facing windows for plenty of natural lighting, outfitted to be a home gym. _Da-yum,_ Stiles thought. No wonder Mitch looked like he did; there were no excuses not to work out when all you had to do was walk to the other side of your apartment.

  


Stiles walked past the unlived in living room and took his place once more at the island. “What are you making?” he asked, one foot braced on the edge of the seat to pull his knee into his chest.

“What do you want?”

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. He wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t _not_ hungry either. With his dad, he could probably get away with not eating. Dad knew what he’d been through, even if he could never understand. But Mitch wasn’t a part of that world, didn’t know the curse that had ravaged his town and his body for almost two years now. With him, Stiles couldn’t just shrug off normalcy without a care. Not entirely at least.

As if he could hear Stiles’ thoughts—or read the reluctance in his body language, more likely—Mitch made a suggestion that Stiles could get behind.

“How about paninis?” That was… easy. Doable. Something light that wouldn’t leave him feeling bogged down for the rest of the day. Anymore than he already was, anyway.

“Sounds good,” Stiles agreed, and watched Mitch get to work. Part of him felt kind of bad not helping; the part of him that was used to doing all of the cooking and cleaning, keeping the house together while his dad spent all of his time at work, coming home only to sleep.

It was tough after Claudia died. The early years especially, when John drowned his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Melissa did her best to help raise him, bless her. But by the time Stiles was ten—4 years after his mother died, and they hadn’t dulled the pain at all—she was getting divorced and having to work more shifts to support raising a child as a single mother, and Stiles was forced to raise himself. He didn’t blame his father per se, but there would always be a child in Stiles crying for his mother and father, both of whom died together that night.

Stiles couldn’t even imagine what it had to have been like for Mitch. His brother had never gotten the chance to say goodbye before she died. As far as Stiles knew, he hadn’t even seen her in years. That was something Stiles could never understand, after finding out about his half-brother on the other side of the country; he couldn’t picture his mother as the type to abandon her child, to leave and never look back.

“Did you ever see mom again? After she left, I mean,” Stiles blurted, and instantly regretted it. They’d never talked about her before in all their online communication. It was bound to be a sore spot for Mitch. Stiles was amazed Mitch even let him come stay here, after Claudia effectively abandoned him for Stiles and his dad.

Mitch did tense up, pausing with his knife halfway through the tomato he was slicing, red juice sluicing down the blade like blood. Then he continued his task like Stiles hadn’t just wrenched forth what had to be painful memories.

“A few times. Mostly we kept in touch through calls and emails.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is.”

“How can you just accept it?”

“There’s nothing I could do to change it, and there’s no point dwelling on it.” Stiles scowled down at his lap, picking at his cuticles. What he really wanted to know was,

“Do you hate my dad and me for taking her away?”

“No.” Stiles looked up sharply, shocked by the plain answer. Mitch said it like it should be obvious, but Stiles didn’t know how it could be. If their positions were reversed, Stiles would hate his guts. His mom had meant everything to him, and losing her destroyed him. If he’d had to live with the knowledge that she found someone else, found a family that she loved more, it would have crushed him. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

“ _How?_ ” he asked incredulously. Mitch looked at him, curious, but also disappointed and maybe a little frustrated. And sad, like he didn’t think he should have to explain something as simple as why he didn’t hate his little brother.

“Maybe in the beginning I did, and I hated her for leaving, but I was ten. Kids aren’t exactly known for their rationality. I got over it, and in the end, I’m just happy she found someone who loved her because it sure as shit wasn’t my father.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. Clearly there was a story there. As much as Stiles loved his dad, there appeared to be no fondness in Mitch for his own father. Stiles wanted to pick at that, draw out the details like poison, but he buried the impulse, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled. It wouldn’t do to alienate Mitch this early on by asking him to spill his guts for Stiles’ sick satisfaction.

“I don’t remember her very well,” Stiles admitted. “I was really young when—it happened. But I remember how she was with my dad, and they really were in love.” Stiles had never seen someone as in love as they were ever since. A small part of him hoped that one day he would be deserving of that kind of love. That he would be lucky enough to find it.

They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t from any sense of awkwardness. Mitch seemed pleased by Stiles’ words. Genuinely happy that Claudia found someone to treat her the way she deserved, like she was all that was love and light in the world. Stiles balanced his chin on his knee and basked in the silence and the scent of basil beginning to permeate the apartment. For once he wasn’t compelled to break the quiet, closing his eyes and letting himself simply _be._

***

After lunch Stiles took care of the few dishes so that he could feel like he was being somewhat helpful—even now, he couldn’t stand not to contribute in some way, despite however else he may feel—and then went back to his room to check his phone. Working the nightshift was hard on his father and he was bound to still be asleep at 4 in the afternoon, so Stiles didn’t expect any messages from him. Instead there was one from Melissa wishing him well.

Listening to her voice crackling over the voicemail as she told him to take care of himself and stay out of trouble made his heart hurt. Melissa was as much a mother to him as Claudia had been, and he missed her with a vengeance. He also remembered setting the oni on her, how she was almost killed because of him, and he knew the best thing was for him to stay far away from his loved ones.

That didn’t mean he deleted the voicemail once it reached its end, however. He saved it for when the homesickness and loneliness got so bad he felt he would die from it, a reminder that he’d brought this on himself. That he deserved it, this distance between everyone and everything he knew. He deserved to get lost in the mirrored labyrinth that was New York, where the only one he could hurt was himself.

***

When Mitch didn’t seek him out to ask what he wanted for dinner hours later—Stiles was expecting him to complete the pattern he was creating with the other two meals—Stiles left the room to go searching for him. His brother was nowhere to be found anywhere in the apartment. Not even the office, which Stiles couldn’t bring himself to open, but did press his ear against the door. Couldn’t hear anything.

On his second pass through the apartment, Stiles spotted the note waiting for him on the end of the island. Mitch’s handwriting was surprisingly elegant, looping cursive drawn with crisp, confident lines.

_I had to run out. Order in if you can’t cook, keep the cash if you can. Don’t wait up._

Then, at the bottom of the note, like an afterthought: _Don’t get lost._

Simple, terse, exactly what Stiles was coming to expect from Mitch. His brother was a man of few words in comparison to his own rambling habits. The yin to his yang it would seem.

Beside the note was forty dollars, leaving Stiles wondering just how expensive takeout was in New York. Resting on top was a silver key Mitch must have had made for him. _That’ll probably be what not getting lost meant_.

The idea of ordering or making dinner held no interest to him, and taking the cash made him feel uncomfortable. Stiles just left everything where it was--but he did take the key, even if he had no intention of leaving the apartment anytime soon--and retreated back to his room. It was a relief not to have to worry about eating anything; his two meals today after two days of nothing made him feel lethargic and sick. Dinner would be more hassle than it was worth.

Sliding back under the covers, Stiles wondered how long he could go without eating. The Nogitsune hardly took care of his body, starving him because it didn’t care enough to follow its human whims, and he never died. (Chaos and strife, while sickeningly satisfying, does not make up a balanced diet.) Would that carry over now that the Nogitsune was gone? Or was it only that dark spirit that kept his flesh animated, defying his physiology.

He probably wouldn’t get the chance to test his curiosity. Not here at least, where Mitch was a constant presence, looming like a forgotten shadow. Stiles knew his brother was concerned about him. And why wouldn’t he be when Stiles showed up looking like a victim of something terrible?

Mitch probably thought he was being discreet, but Stiles had learned to see without looking. He caught the way Mitch’s dark eyes would follow him, scrutinizing, judging. Mitch wouldn’t let him get away with subjecting himself to a slow death. He may be subtle about it now, allowing Stiles to think everything was his choice, but he was under no illusion that would change in an instant if the situation called for it.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly what Stiles needed, someone to force him out of his self-destructive spiral in a way his dad couldn’t. Someone who had no reason to care for Stiles, who had no personal investment in his happiness and so couldn’t be manipulated.

Strangely, Stiles thought of Peter. The eldest Hale would be perfectly suited to fill that position if anyone could put an ounce of trust in him. Just imagining the way Peter would look down on Stiles with that derisive sneer, telling him to quit wallowing in self-pity and get over his petty teen angst, made Stiles almost laugh. Peter would be the worst self-help coach he could imagine, indelicate and rude just for the sake of it. He would probably be effective, though. There was nothing Stiles loved more than a challenge, and he would die before proving Peter right.

A text from Derek came in while Stiles ruminated. He was just as terse as Mitch; they’d probably get along great with their shared interest in leather jackets, sports cars, and prolonged silences.

**Sourwolf**

_Are you alive?_

**Stiles**

_For the moment. Mitch might be a serial killer, still deciding on that front, but he makes GREAT paninis so I think it’s worth the risk._

**Sourwolf**

_The Belmont alpha said she hasn’t heard from you._

**Stiles**

_Dude it’s been like a day, chill. I’m still getting settled in and what not._

_How’re things looking on the home front?_

**Sourwolf**

_Fine **.**_

**Stiles**

_Okay and??_

**Sourwolf**

_Things are quiet._

_No disturbances in the force._

A grin split Stiles’ face. He could imagine the mental anguish it took for Derek to type that sentence, and he appreciated the man taking pains to cheer him up.

**Stiles**

_Guess you guys don’t need me, then._

**Sourwolf**

_Don’t worry about us._

As if that had any likelihood of happening sometime soon. Stiles didn’t know how to do anything else. He’d been worrying about his friends and family for as long as he could remember. As that grew to include his pack, so too did his perpetual state of anxiety, coupled with the looming dread of something terrible lurking on the horizon.

Hypervigilance was a bitch.

**Stiles**

_May the force be with you, Sourwolf._

**Derek**

_Whatever._

_Take care of yourself, Stiles._

**Stiles**

_You too, man._

  


Stiles plugged in his earbuds and turned his music up loud enough to drown out his buzzing thoughts, bobbing his foot and tapping his fingers along to the melody. The room was dim, the lone lamp casting long shadows on the walls. Stiles held up his hand and curled his fingers, watching the way they elongated into grotesque claws.

When his shadow came to life, cold dread settled in Stiles’ stomach. He clenched his eyes shut, covered his face with his hands. He cowered beneath the covers because monsters couldn’t touch him there. Except that didn’t apply unless they were tucked in by mothers, and Stiles had no mother’s power to protect him here.

“Sti-les,” it crooned with his voice distorted and unrecognizable, drawing out the vowel until it rang in Stiles’ ears. The music wasn’t enough to drown out the noise when it was already coming from inside his head.

“Leave me alone,” Stiles begged on a whisper. The Nogitsune was dead, _gone._ It _had_ to be. Scott had bitten it, Kira had killed it, Stiles watched it crumble to a pile of ash and nothingness.

“Oh Stiles,” it laughed. Stiles could feel its breath ghosting over his face, hot and acrid. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me that easy, did you?” Cracked lips brushed his ear, he could hear its even breaths. His own were starting to come in stuttered pants, chest seizing up. “Didn’t you know? You can never get rid of your own shadow.”

***

Panic attacks were a nightmare, but in some ways, they were a blessing. When the hyperventilation became too much, Stiles passed out and finally found some semblance of peace. For a little while, at least. When he came to again only two songs had elapsed. His head was pounding but there were no distorted shadows to haunt him, so he counted it as a win and dragged himself out of bed. His skin was clammy with cold sweat and his hair was oily from too many days not showering. His stale clothes were starting to offend even himself.

Stiles grabbed a change of clothes from his suitcase, still lying on the floor with all of his belongings inside. Stiles nudged it half-heartedly with his foot. It could wait until tomorrow.

***

After a few minutes fiddling with the knobs to get the temperature right—why didn’t showers come with the directions posted somewhere? —Stiles was stepping under the spray. It was gloriously hot, melting the tension from his shoulders. Steam rose from his cold skin in delicate whorls, like spider silk. Stiles waved his arm around slowly, watching it rise.

The water was starting to run cold by the time Stiles remembered to wash the buildup of oil and old gel out of his hair. He was enamored by the steam, lost in the white noise of his thoughts. A pleasant static that crackled at the edge of his awareness while the water beat down on him with just enough pressure.

Stiles lathered shampoo into his hair, the texture waxy and stiff, and felt disgusted with himself for waiting so long. It was only a passing thought though, washed away by the soothing waters of apathy. What did it matter if he didn’t shower for a week? There was no one for him to impress here. No one to be strong for. He didn’t have to pretend to be okay, free to laze around in bed for as long as he wanted. So long as he put in the effort to come out and eat once in a while, Mitch would probably even let him get away with it. Eventually he would have his own life to get back to, and Stiles could continue on like a fly on the wall; small, unseen, only a minor nuisance when he was noticed.

Stiles was never good at going unnoticed, but he could try. He wanted to try. Just let himself fade into the background, until everyone forgot about him. It would be for the best; _Stiles_ was the one always dragging everyone into trouble. It was his fault Scott was bitten, kickstarting everything that happened. He saw it in that bath. If he hadn’t talked Scott into going with him to search for Laura Hale’s body, Scott never would have been bitten, Allison never would have gotten involved with them. Derek would never have become the alpha and Deucalion would never have come searching for him, for Scott.

They never would have needed to perform the sacrifice.

Stiles never would have been too weak to resist the Nogitsune.

Allison never would have had to die.

Stiles attracted pain and death as much as Beacon Hills drew monsters, starting with his mother and continuing with an endless trail of bodies. It was an agonizing truth that threatened to steal his breath away again.

Stiles choked back a sob when he thought of his mother, of how she wrapped her hands - thin, bony, painful - around his skinny arms and told him he was a monster. For a year he watched his mother slip away, bit by bit. Something in him died with her in that hospital room.

With shaking hands Stiles scrambled for the knobs, wrenching the temperature from hot to freezing cold. The shock made him gasp, wet and ragged. His throat was constricting painfully, the muscles drawn so tight. Stiles sank to his knees at the bottom of the shower, huddled up against the cold tile wall that reminded him so much of Eichen, and sobbed. Every wrenching heave made him feel torn open and raw, like something was clawing its way out from his throat.

When he dry-heaved there was no bandages to choke him as he pulled them from his esophagus, just bile and painful spasms. The freezing water hurt against his skin, like shards of glass raining down, seeping into him, burrowing in deep.

Stiles huddled in the corner and shivered until all of his sobs turned to wet sniffles and heavy, gasping breaths. He controlled them this time. The tears were still hot on his face, but his body was numb. Static in his limbs that ached when he moved, tiny parasites chewing away at his flesh beneath the skin. Shaking so terribly, it took Stiles several tries to make the water warm again. It hurt more than the cold, the sudden change in temperature. He whimpered but bore it, accepted the cleansing pain, let it wash everything away.

After the shivering stopped Stiles turned off the water, but he didn’t get out of the shower. He stayed huddled on the floor, breathing carefully. Slowly he stretched out his legs and tried to ignore the painful pins and needles lancing through them, waiting for feeling to return.

By the time he found the strength to pull himself up his hair was half-dry. He almost blacked out again, vision spotting as a wave of vertigo threatened to send him back to the ground. But he held onto the towel rack until he could see clearly, dried himself off. Changing into fresh clothes was bliss, the fabric well-worn and soft against his sensitive skin, still red and raw from the shower.

Stiles briefly caught his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Before he averted his eyes he noticed the scratches down his pale throat, couldn’t remember clawing at himself. Rubbing at them, Stiles hung up his towel, left his old filthy clothes in the hamper with the intention of finding where the laundry room was tomorrow, and went back to his room feeling like a wrung-out washcloth.

Stiles collapsed into bed face-first and didn’t have the strength to even pull up the blankets. Not that it mattered, the apartment was warm enough anyway. Mitch’s utility bill was probably outrageous to keep the place so well heated all the time.

Stiles wiggled his bare toes, digging them into the bedding. His feet were finally starting to stop hurting so much, blood flow returning and doing away with the pins and needles.

***

Stiles glanced around the room blearily, blinking open tired eyes. His vision was fogged with sleep, the city lights outside the open window—Stiles liked the reminder that he couldn’t sneak out in his sleep from the seventh floor—blended together into a colorful mosaic. He worked his mouth to moisten it, the stale taste on his dry tongue reminding him he’d forgotten to brush his teeth. Again.

He yawned and crawled to the end of the bed, precariously leaning over the edge and digging into his suitcase in search of his toothbrush and paste. He pulled the batman-themed items out with a triumphant hum and made his way out to the bathroom just in time to see Mitch halfway to his own room.

“Did you just get back?” Stiles asked, startling in the quiet. Mitch stopped, but he didn’t turn to look at Stiles.

He wanted to know why.

“Yeah.” Mitch clearly intended that to be the end of the conversation, but Stiles didn’t let it drop so easily. There was something nagging at him. The way Mitch walked was stilted and measured, not like his usual confident steps. Mitch was being _careful._

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Goodnight.” _Dismissed._ There was nothing Stiles hated more than being shut down. Especially when he was in the midst of figuring something out. Mitch shut himself away in his bedroom before Stiles could ask any more questions, leaving him alone in the hall. Stiles clenched his fingers around his toothbrush, tempted to follow after Mitch and demand answers, but he’d barged into his life enough already. Even though it killed him, Stiles crossed the hall to the bathroom.

As he brushed his teeth, eyes never straying from the sink, Stiles knew one thing for certain; Mitch was injured. His halted, slow gate, his even breaths. There was no mistaking it. Stiles was intimately familiar with the walk of an injured man trying to hide it, to avoid questioning. How many times had he done the exact same thing with his dad, his friends?

After he was done Stiles rinsed out his mouth and cupped his hands under the water to drink, swishing it thoughtfully between his cheeks. He needed to know.

  


Light filtered into the dark hall from the thin crack between Mitch’s door and the wall. It had been carelessly thrown shut and didn’t close all the way. Stiles crept towards it with all the silence of a shadow, keeping to the darkness like a man born from it. It was where he belonged. They wrapped around his body and welcomed him close. Stiles was indistinguishable from his shadow.

If Mitch was injured, Stiles needed to know why. Needed to be aware of the threat so he could plan for it. He didn’t dare push open the door, drawing his arm back to his chest at the last second. Mitch had already made it clear that Stiles needed to stay out of it. But he couldn’t.

Holding his breath, Stiles took another step, leaned in close enough that he could peer through the crack in the door.

Mitch was pulling on a fresh shirt, the one he’d just been wearing crumpled up on the floor. He winced, aching muscles shifting beneath his skin, animating the bruises down his back. God, there were so many. Stiles’ eyes widened at the state of him, his tawny skin mottled with the sickly yellow-green of fading hurt. Startlingly fresh in other places, bright red blooms soon to darken into a violent purple.

Mitch turned, his attention catching on the not fully closed door. Stiles scrambled back as Mitch started towards him, catching himself just before he fell. He turned and ran, stepping as quietly as he could while trying to get into his room before Mitch caught him, bare feet padding softly over the hardwood floors.

Heart beating like a hummingbird, Stiles closed his door behind himself—quietly, so quietly—and pressed his back against it, breathing hard in the silence of his room. Ears straining for any sounds outside, Stiles waited for Mitch to follow him, demand to know why Stiles was spying. But he never came. By the time his heart had regained a normal rhythm, Stiles knew that whatever confrontation he was expecting wasn’t coming. He allowed himself to relax somewhat, but knew he would be getting no sleep that night. Not with a dozen questions whirring in his mind.

 _What is going on?_ Wildly, Stiles thought maybe his jokes of Mitch being a hitman weren’t so far off the mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter thus far, and I've been waiting to post it for WEEKS! Let me know what you guys think?


	4. Afterimage

Stiles liked to think that he was good at crisis management. Given his history, it had become a survival mechanism of sorts; he could distance himself from the problem, pick it apart, see every little piece that made it up and figure out how to arrange it into the full picture from there.

There weren’t enough pieces to see the full picture.

One, Mitch was wealthy. More than, Stiles would guess, your average upper-class New Yorker.

Two, Mitch made unpleasant phone calls in a very harsh-sounding language. (German, maybe Russian? Stiles wasn't sure.)

Those two pieces could be easily reasoned away, if not for the last piece.

Three, after those unpleasant phone calls, Mitch went out late at night, and came back injured.

Once, an incident. Two, a coincidence. But three makes a pattern. Stiles only wished he could figure out what that pattern was. What was the bigger picture?

The easiest conclusion to make was perhaps the worst; that Mitch really  _ was  _ some kind of hitman. The more Stiles worked it over in his head, the more it made sense. From the very first time Stiles laid eyes on his brother, he’d had the aura of a killer. After everything he's been through, it's one Stiles is more than familiar with.

Stiles was excellent at recognizing killers, even when the truth was too hard to face. Even when it was his own reflection.

He needed to get answers. But he had to be careful about it and, and not let Mitch know he was onto him.

***

All night questions whirled through his mind, keeping him awake early into the morning. Eventually Stiles slogged his way out of bed. He checked his phone: 6am on Sunday morning.  _ Ugh, too early.  _ It was blasphemous to even think of getting out of bed that early on a Sunday, but Stiles' body was starting to ache from so much time in lying still. Not that it wouldn’t ache anyway. 

Stiles paused to fish a clean pair of clothes out of his suitcase, before crossing the hall to take a shower. The hot water cascading down his back did wonders for the tension in his body, slowly loosening the knots. He stood under the spray for a long time, soaking up the warmth. A temporary fix to a seemingly permanent problem, but he would take what he could get. By the time he’d washed away the strangeness of the previous night, his skin was scrubbed raw and pink. HIs neck still ached, red welts scored down his pale skin. 

The mirror was steadfastly ignored as Stiles dried himself off. He didn’t want to be reminded that this body, pristine and fragile, wasn’t his. The Nogitsune had taken his body and given him this warped caricature instead, weak. It lacked all of his scars—save for the Lichtenberg figure on his left shoulder—and sense-memory, new and fresh like the first snowfall of winter. He hated it. This body was nothing but a reminder of his violation. This body wasn’t  _ him,  _ not in any of the ways that counted.

He changed into fresh sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, then balled up his old clothes along with the ones in the hamper. He shouldered open the door and crept out into the main room of the apartment, eyes scanning for Mitch. His brother was nowhere to be found. Probably still sleeping off whatever trouble he got himself into last night, if he was still even in the apartment. A part of Stiles hoped he wasn’t. The other part—scared, lonely,  _ weak _ —didn’t want to be left alone again so soon after his panic attack last night.

_ Maybe he’s in the mafia.  _ Stiles thought morosely as he went searching for the laundry room. He loaded up the washer with his few things, puzzled briefly over the settings, then wandered back out into the living room after he got everything working.

In an attempt to branch out from his room a little bit - although the temptation to just hole up there, especially after last night, was strong—Stiles walked over to the bookcase that spanned the wall beneath the TV. He sat down on the plush rug and crossed his legs, regarding the dozens of book-spines facing him. His dad always told him you could tell a lot about a man by his bookshelf.

Stiles would love to see what someone would think about him, based on his wild-collection from a rented book on male circumcision he never returned, to his haphazardly stacked comics and manga, to his nonfiction books on just about every eclectic subject that caught his interest.

Disappointingly, Mitch didn't have anything obvious like "Murder 101" or "How to Hide A Body: A Helpful Handbook", or a  _ manifesto  _ . He did have a lot of true crime novels, though. Stiles wasn't surprised by the Tom Clancy collection, but the wide range of cookbooks was unexpected.

"Huh." Stiles pulled one out at random, cracked it open, and saw that it was written entirely in French. Another one, Polish. The spine was cracked and almost entirely worn away, clearly well used. Loved. The kind that was passed down through the generations. Stiles pulled it off the shelf and opened to a random page, eyes skimming down the small print. He could recognize a few words here and there, but he'd never gotten the chance to become fluent in his mother's tongue. When Stiles flipped to the next page, his heart skipped a beat; he recognized the handwriting scribbled down the margins in faded ink.

Claudia used to love annotating books, any and every kind. Stiles remembered her sitting on the couch, her legs folded up under her and hair twisted up in a messy bun, a book in one hand and a pen in the other. It didn't matter what the book was, whether she was changing a recipe or making notes in a novel. She always liked to leave her own mark on the ones she loved the most.

Unbidden tears came to Stiles eyes as he traced the words. It's been years since he last brought himself to look at any of her books, see the pieces of herself that she left in them.

"I miss you mom," he whispered. Hot tears dripped down his cheeks. Had he ever let himself properly grieve for his mother? Or did he just bottle everything up as much as a child was able, and focus his energy on taking care of his dad.

Stiles let the pain wash through him, wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie so that his tears wouldn't stain the precious pages as he continued to slowly flip through them, looking for his mom's notes.

Another person's handwriting joined hers when Stiles got to the pastry section. Big, sloppy child's writing, drawing doodles in the corner's and writing little comments like "I like these!" It was enough to make Stiles laugh through his tears, imagining a much younger Mitch with their mom in the kitchen, helping her bake the way Stiles used to do, marking up her books.

Stiles didn't know how much time had passed when he reached the end of the book, didn't particularly care. His tears were long-since dried, replaced by a cathartic kind of ache in his chest, like overworked muscles. A bruise he wanted to keep prodding at. It wasn't often enough that he let himself remember his mom, afraid of the pain those memories would bring. Now, it was like a dam had broken open, releasing everything that he'd kept locked inside. He was no longer at risk of drowning.

Stiles scrubbed his blotchy cheeks and flipped the book closed, the cover lagging behind the thin pages and allowing an old photograph to fall onto his lap. He carefully set the book aside and picked it up.

Claudia was about ten years younger, but it was undoubtedly his mom, her arms around a much younger Mitch, looking about the same age Stiles had been when she died. Both of them were smiling brightly, unhaunted by the shadows of her sickness. Mitch had a missing tooth a crooked smile that promised mischief. Stiles traced his thumb down the frayed edge, inhaling a ragged breath.

Wait.

No.

The edge wasn't frayed at all. Lifting the picture closer, Stiles realized that it was torn, ripped cleanly down the center to cut someone out of the picture. Now that he knew what he was looking at, a family portrait, Stiles could just make out the edge of a man's hand on Claudia's waist.

“The plot thickens,” Stiles mumbled, thumbing the torn edge thoughtfully. Another piece in the mystery that was his brother. He wondered what Mitch’s father had done to make Mitch hate him enough to tear him out of the photograph. Out of his life. 

***

It’s been a long time since Stiles put any effort into making a meal. Tasteless protein and granola bars have been his go-to for the past few weeks, or toast if he was feeling particularly ambitious. Now though, filled with memories of cooking with his mother, he decided it was time to give it another shot.

Mitch’s austere kitchen was way bigger than he was used to. Stiles liked having room to work, able to sprawl out everything he needed from the get-go instead of trying to work in a cramped space, one step at a time always inevitably forgetting something. 

The first thing Stiles did was look through the fridge and cupboards to make sure he had everything he needed, not entirely sure what he wanted to make until he saw the fresh berries. The strawberries and blackberries were taken out and left by the sink for now, cream cheese set next to it to soften, and the carton of eggs went to the counter, soon joined by flour and a mixing bowl.

Stiles was buzzing with energy as he gathered all of his ingredients, double checking he had everything before setting a skillet and saucepan on the stove. It was a quiet sort of energy, nothing compared to his usual—before he got possessed, anyway—level, but it was warm and pleasant all the same. He even hummed a soft tune as he measured and mixed together ingredients, a Polish lullaby his mother used to sing him. He couldn’t remember all of the words, but he didn’t need to, able to still hear her voice in the melody, clear as day.

Stiles turned on one of the burners to heat the skillet, dropping in a pat of butter to slowly melt. Once the batter was to the right consistency, Stiles ladled some into the skillet, swirling it around the pan to leave a thin, even coat. Soon it was bubbling away, leaving hardly any time for Stiles to rinse off the berries before he had to flip it, and then slide it onto a plate.

“I should have saved these for last,” Stiles said, smiling to himself, just a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. He was committed now, though, and so continued on until he was all out of batter. Then it was time to make the berry sauce. Stiles sliced a handful of strawberries in half, and muddled the blackberries in the sauce pan with the back of a spoon, then added in some sugar and set it to simmer.

While the berries cooked down he worked on the cream cheese filling, and while his back was turned, he heard Mitch coming down the hall. Stiles looked over his shoulder; Mitch looked barely awake, his hair a mess and clothes askew, like he’d just rolled out of bed. Stiles was surprised he could look anything other than put together. Seeing his brother so ruffled and sleepsoft was humanising, in a way. Made Stiles feel almost guilty for being so suspicious of the man, when he’s been nothing but generous, allowing Stiles to come stay with him even though they barely knew each other. 

“Stiles?” Mitch sleepily asked, likely just as surprised at seeing him not only awake and up before him, but actually  _ cooking.  _ That made two of them, but Stiles wasn’t going to question it.

“Good morning,” Stiles chirped, giving the berry sauce a quick stir. They were starting to smell amazing, almost enough to make him actually hungry.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast, obviously.” Stiles turned off the heat and turned around to face Mitch fully. His brother was looking at him with a bewildered kind of smile that Stiles shyly returned. Until Mitch tried to peer past him, to see what he was doing. Then Stiles spread his arms out defensively. “ _ Nie, nie, nie _ ! Don’t look! Go sit on the couch or something, it’s not done yet.” He wanted it to be a  _ surprise.  _ Laughing softly, Mitch complied. Warm satisfaction curled in Stiles’ belly.

Once the berry sauce was finished, assembling the meal was pretty quick. Stiles filled the crepes with the cream cheese filling and rolled them up into little pockets, then set them back in the pan to crisp the sides. After, he divided them between two plates, dusted them with powdered sugar, and poured the berry sauce overtop.

“Okay,  _ now  _ they’re done. Keep your eyes closed, though! You have to guess what it is.”

Dutifully, Mitch kept his eyes closed as he came back to the kitchen. “Crepes?” he guessed, going by the smell.

“Close. It’s  _ nalesniki,  _ ” Stiles declared proudly. If Mitch was surprised to see Stiles cooking, he was more surprised by Stiles’ choice of breakfast, unable to hide it, or just not trying. It made Stiles blush faintly, self-conscious. “Mom and I used to make it for my dad. It’s been a while, but I still remembered the recipe. One of those things you never forget, y’know?”

“We used to make  _ pierogies.  _ Cliche but classic,” Mitch offered with a sad little smile. They were quiet for a moment, remembering. 

“Anyway.” Stiles cleared his throat, pushing down the sudden rising hurt. He was teetering on the edge of a precipice, afraid to fall. “ _ Bon appetit!  _ ”

If Mitch noticed he only ate half of his  _ nalesniki,  _ it went unsaid.

***

Half an hour later found Stiles on his knees in the bathroom, his stomach trembling with spasms as he threw up what little breakfast he’d managed to eat. Bile burned his throat raw, and his eyes watered as he waited for it to pass. Even when there was nothing left in his stomach he kept dry heaving, his abdomen hurting with it. 

Apparently he’d been too ambitious with such a rich meal. The last few days had finally caught up with him, too much for his body to take after so many weeks of nothing. Stiles sniffled pitifully, his face damp with sweat and snot and tears. He just wanted to be  _ normal _ , but trying to pretend only made things worse. 

When Stiles finally flushed the toilet and dragged himself to his feet his knees popped, joints creaking like an old skeleton. He shambled over to the sink, feeling less than human. He cupped his hands under the tap to drink, the cool water soothing the sting of vomit as he rinsed out his mouth, and followed it up with brushing his teeth. 

The reflection was hollow, the light unkind to his features, showing every flaw in stark detail. His cheeks were too thin, his eyes bleak and empty. His lips pale and dry. Like the Nogitsune had never left. 

Stiles spit out his mouthful of toothpaste and rinsed off the brush. He bent over and cupped his hands under the tap again, washing out the leftover foam. When he stood back up, a cruel smirk twisted his reflection into something unrecognizable, and so, so painfully familiar. Stiles closed his eyes; the reflection was back to normal when he dared to look again. 

***

Stiles wasn’t the one to kill Allison. Wasn’t even there, barely conscious in a tunnel as Lydia tried to drag him out, the Nogitsune sapping all of his strength until there was nothing left. Still, he remembers Lydia’s scream echoing down the tunnel, the banshee's wail deafening. And the aftermath.  

The coroner’s report crossed the Sheriff’s desk just like any other, left there by a deputy for John to look over when he got back. It was waiting for him when Stiles got to the office to see his dad. Of course he had to look at it, out of some sense of morbid curiosity and guilt.

The autopsy picture was haunting. Allison was always so vibrant and full of life - now she was laid out on a steel table, lifeless and washed out by the artificial lighting of the morgue. No different from any other body that passed over those tables, cut open and dissected like a high school lab experiment. Stiles could just make out the beginnings of the ‘Y’ incision in her portrait, stitched up with black thread, her corpse ready to be shipped off to a mortician to prepare for the funeral.

It wasn’t until his dad walked in that Stiles realized he was crying. The sheriff took the file - tears dripped onto the photo, staining it, buckling the paper - from numb fingers, set it closed and out of reach on the desk. It didn’t matter if Stiles could no longer see the photo; Allison’s face was burned onto the backs of his eyelids like an afterimage, the only thing he could see through the blur of his tears.

“I killed her,” Stiles whispered, staring down at his hands, imagining them dripping with fresh blood. John crouched in front of Stiles. He put one hand on Stiles’ shoulder, cupped his cheek with the other and forced his son to meet his eyes, fiercely told him,

“It’s not your fault.”

“I let it in. Everyone it killed, that’s on me. It’s my fault!” John pulled Stiles in close. Stiles let him. He collapsed into his father’s arms until they were both on the floor, Stiles’ face buried in his father’s uniform shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Stiles wept to no one in particular, feeling six years old again.

John had never in his life felt more helpless than he did while holding his weeping son close, as Stiles tried to claim responsibility for crimes he didn’t commit. Stiles had always felt the need to shoulder responsibility that wasn’t his to carry. Part of John couldn’t help but wonder if that was because of Claudia.

***

Even though Stiles knew he wasn’t the cause of Allison’s death - not physically at least - that didn’t stop him from dreaming of her. In the dream,  _ he  _ held the oni’s katana.  _ He  _ plunged it into her stomach and twisted the blade, superimposing Allison over what he had done to Scott. The slick feel of flesh parting for the blade was one Stiles was intimately familiar with. The taste of agony was fresh and heady as he leeched it from her.

Stiles caught Allison as she fell, holding her body against his in a facsimile of an embrace. One hand was still on the katana’s hilt, rich blood pouring over spindly fingers, staining his skin. Stiles wrenched it back in horror, the blade coming free with a wet  _ schluck,  _ and eased her to the ground, still holding her.

“Allison! Oh God, I’m so sorry-”

“Why did you do this to me, Stiles?” Allison’s voice was hoarse, shaking past bloodstained lips. Pain trembled in her body as fear filled her dark eyes. Stiles drew it out of her like poison, like the werewolves, trying to fix it. It filled his belly like hot chocolate.

“I didn’t-I didn’t mean to, I-”

“You let it in,” she accused, clutching the front of his shirt. “You let it  _ in  _ .”

And then Allison was gone, fading away to be replaced with a face Stiles knew as well as his own. His shadow smirked, cruel and cold. There was nothing in the Nogitsune’s empty black eyes.

“You let me in, Stiles,” it taunted, the oil slick sound of it’s voice overlaid with the gurgle of blood in Allison’s, a sick symphony of death. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” Stiles jerked away. They were no longer in Oak Creek, he realized. They were in the Preserve, the Nemeton a monolith in the center of the clearing, the stump a reminder of former greatness. Bodies littered the ground like discarded trash. Dozens of them, stranger’s faces staring at Stiles with hollow, dead eyes. Some long-buried part of his brain recognized them; a doctor, a nurse, a deputy. His victims, watching him now, judging him, finding him wanting.

Draped across the withered stump of the Nemeton was his pack. At the top of the pile, his father.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Nogitsune whispered behind Stiles, dry lips catching against the shell of his ear. Stiles clenched his eyes shut and turned away, tried not to see the devastation he had wrought. The Nogitsune wouldn’t let him, grabbing him by the jaw and forcefully turning his head. “  _ Look.  _ They died  _ screaming. _ ” Just like the Nogitsune promised they would.

Stiles was forced to watch as his father rose up from the pile of bodies - sacrifices - a lurching, mangled corpse. Like a marionette doll, he raised one limp arm and pointed at Stiles.

“You killed your mother,” his father rasped. Blood poured out of the wound in his chest. “You killed me.” The Nogitsune held him fast as he fought to escape, his father coming towards him in shambling steps. His once pristine tan uniform was soaked through with crimson. There was nowhere to go, the thin arms around his body binding him as well as iron. His father reached out for him, angry, hateful, looking just like Clauda did all those years ago. He was going to  _ kill  _ him-

Stiles jerked awake with a scream. Tears ran hot on his blotchy face, his throat hoarse and raw. Distantly, he was aware of someone calling his name, shouting. The bed dipped and Stiles lashed out, not knowing who his victim was and not caring -  _ we never cared  _ \- scratching with blunt nails until his wrists were bound, hands wrenched away. He thrashed and kicked to escape, could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

And then his world sharpened into focus.

Mitch held his wrists pinned to the bed, body braced over Stiles in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself. Stiles finally registered that his brother was the one shouting his name, not the cries of the dead demanding retribution.

He was awake.

Stiles lay there panting, trying in vain to draw a full breath. When it became obvious he wouldn’t attack again Mitch released him, thumbs rubbing soft circles on his wrists, so tender that Stiles wondered if Mitch knew he was doing it. The blood flow returning to his hands felt painful, tingling at his fingertips like electricity.

“Are you okay?” Stiles tried to get out a response but his breaths stuttered in his chest, muscles tensing like they were trying to pull his ribs tighter together. There wasn’t enough room to draw in a deep breath.

Mitch hauled him up but it didn't help, Stiles listing into him as he gasped desperately for air. Mitch's arms were warm around him, his hands even more so when he slipped them under Stiles' shirt. Nimble fingers kneaded into his flesh at the base of his neck, slowly working lower, trying to alleviate the tension. Stiles closed his eyes and buried his face against Mitch's shoulder, hands clenched against his chest. Slowly he relaxed, his breaths coming easier.

"You've been through some serious shit, haven't you, kid?" Mitch asked, so quiet Stiles almost thought he imagined it.

“Don’t leave,” Stiles pleaded quietly. Pitiful. He felt like a scared child, wished he had his mother to comfort him. Not even she would be able to chase away the demon in his mind

"I'm not going anywhere," Mitch promised, running his hand up and down Stiles' back. Stiles sighed, leaning heavily into him, soothed by the strong, steady beat of his heart. Whatever else was going on, he could take comfort in this. 

***

"How did you know that would help?" Stiles asked after a while. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. With eyes shut tight, Mitch breathing like a metronome the only way he had to measure the passage of time, Stiles had no way of knowing. Mitch was still petting him, almost absent minded in his touch. It made Stiles want to purr and arch into it like a cat.

"I used to get nightmares too." Claudia must have done it for him then, Stiles surmised, his heart aching a little bit the way it always did when he thought of his mom. "Come on.”

Stiles wasn't ready to leave the safety of Mitch's embrace, but he reluctantly pulled away and got out of the bed, following Mitch out of the room. He was led to the kitchen, taking a seat at the bar while he watched Mitch turn on the light—keeping it low, the atmosphere staying soft and sleepy—and get out a saucepan. That was followed by milk and honey which he set to simmer on the stove, then went to search through the spice cabinet.

Stiles watched Mitch in tired fascination as he liberally measured a few spoonfuls of honey into the simmering milk, then sprinkled in the spice he'd gotten. Nutmeg, if he was making what Stiles suspected. Stiles eyed Mitch while he gently whisked the milk.

After a few minutes Mitch poured the spiced milk into two mugs, handing one to Stiles who accepted it with a soft, "Thank you." It smelled a little like Christmas and a lot like memories, bringing back the times his mother had made this for him. The drink tasted just the same as he remembered, and it was strange, having another person make it. Good, though, and he sipped it slowly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Mitch asked, startling Stiles.

"What?"

"Whatever it is you were dreaming about. Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's not really anything to talk about." He bit the inside of his cheek, turning his mug and focusing on the sound of it grinding at the marble countertop, instead of looking across at Mitch who watched him curiously. "I, uh. Went through some stuff. Back in California," he said into his drink, picking at his cuticles on his left hand with the bitten-down nails of his right.

"Must have been pretty gruesome."

"Yeah, it was. I… a friend of mine died, and I guess I'm still not over it yet." The sound of Lydia screaming Allison's name was still so fresh in his memory, shaking Stiles to his core. He hadn't been present for her death, but he still felt like he'd been the one to kill her, the Nogitsune still wearing his body as it commanded the Oni to drive its katana through her stomach. Allison's blood was on his hands and it burned him like poison.

Blood welled up on Stiles' nail bed as he pulled at the skin, blooming red against his pale finger. He kept picking until Mitch reached across the counter to pull his hand away, stopping him from peeling back the skin to see what was underneath. He wouldn't be surprised to find the tissue underneath blackened, stained with the taint of the Nogitsune.

"It's not your fault," Mitch said, like he could read the guilt on Stiles' face, hear it in his voice. Stiles shook his head in denial.

"You don't know what happened."

"Maybe not, but I have a feeling I'm right."

Stiles shook his head in denial, unable to make himself look at Mitch. His brother had no idea the things he'd done back in Beacon Hills. If he had told his father sooner about everything going on behind the curtain, or if he'd been strong enough to keep the Nogitsune out, or if he'd jumped off the roof at the hospital… maybe then Allison would still be alive. It would be better that way. They hadn't had much time together as friends—yet another thing to feel guilty for, they'd barely even known each other—but he would gladly trade his life for hers in an instant, if he could.

"I don't know you very well, but I don't think you're the type to hurt someone," Mitch said. Stiles watched as he wrapped a paper towel around the tip of his finger, putting gentle pressure on it to stop the bleeding.

"There you would be wrong," he said, watching his blood stain the napkin, slowly spreading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im in my last 2 weeks of class so I'm not sure if I'll be able to get chapter 5 posted on schedule, but it'll be worth the wait. After these last four chapters, Stiles has finally earned himself a reprieve for a little while.
> 
> Edit: couldn't help myself, I had to give this chapter a bit of a rework. It felt too incomplete.


	5. Uncanny Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finally gets a break, and some insight.

_ There you would be wrong.  _ A careless revelation of past sins that made his eyes sting and his throat hurt. 

_ There you would be wrong.  _ Who would suspect a teenage boy of the atrocities he’s committed? 

_ There you would be wrong.  _ The bitter dark-chocolate taste of pain and suffering was one he still craved, even when the Nogitsune no longer resided inside of him. What did that mean for him? Could he ever truly know that it was gone, when it still haunted him like a vivid spectre, the shadow of a nightmare.  _ Was  _ it truly gone, were the cravings his own? What would it mean for him if they were? 

There was no escape from his memories. 

There was a tremble in his hands that Stiles tried to hide by pulling them away and wrapping them around his mug. The ceramic was hot to the touch, scalding against his thin skin. Blood dried to rust on his nail bed, congealing and flaking off like chalk. The familiarity made his skin itch. 

_ Do you know what it feels like to have blood on your hands?  _ Stiles wanted to ask. Only the blood wasn't just on his hands, it stained his soul. What was left of it, anyhow, torn and ravaged by the Nogitsune until only a thin wisp of a thing was left, a gossamer spider web drifting further and further away. Fading into the void. 

“Do you think souls exist?” Stiles asked, looking for absolution that his brother couldn’t provide. The only indication Mitch gave that he was surprised by the nonsequitur was a questioning hum. He twisted his mug back and forth thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“But if they did, if everyone had a soul… what would it be?” Stiles worried his bottom lip, didn’t know how to ask the question he really wanted answers to. “At what point do you stop being you?”

“Like when you die?”

“No. Like if you die, but then you get brought back. Who’s to say that what gets brought back isn’t you anymore, not really. Not in the ways that count.” 

_ Who am I?  _

The question haunted him. 

Mitch was silent, watching Stiles carefully, thinking the question over. Looking for what Stiles was really getting at, so that he could find the right thing to say. Stiles wondered how he must look, how he must sound, for Mitch to take such care. 

“I think if souls did exist,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully, “they would be electrical. Like the synapses in your brain. So when your brain dies, that’s it, you’re gone.” Stiles thought of their mother, how she stopped being  _ her  _ weeks before she finally died. He remembered a man in the room beside her, life support always steadily beeping and breathing for him to keep him alive. Stiles remembered that he never felt alive, the few times Stiles saw him. “I believe it’s your memories that make you who you are. Whether souls exist or not, if you still have your memories, then it’s still you.” 

“So if you cloned someone, and gave them the host’s memories, the clone would be the same as the original? No distinction?”

“I don’t see why not. If the clone has all the memories of the host’s experiences, then why wouldn’t they be the same? Isn’t that the whole point of a clone?”

“But the clone didn’t live them. It’s just an illusion.” Mitch surprised Stiles by smiling at that. 

“‘To live is to be perceived’,” he quoted. “It’s a line from a movie I saw once. Who we are comes from how we perceive everything around us, and in turn how we are perceived. It doesn’t matter because to the clone, it would be like they were the one to live those experiences. They wouldn’t know any different.”

“So basically, everything is an illusion, and there’s no way to say anything is real.” It was an intriguing idea to say the least, and Stiles was just desperate enough that he might be able to believe it. “Then what if the clone did know? That they were just a replica with someone else’s memories.”

“Do you think the memories would feel different?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I think if the clone knew the memories weren’t their own actual experiences, then they would feel like a dream.” 

“Memories and dreams feel different, though.” 

“Not always. Sometimes you have no way to tell.” How many times in the beginning did he think he was only dreaming, before the body count started stacking up? 

Mitch raised a good point, though. Stiles’ memories, the ones he  _ knew  _ to be real, didn’t feel any different. It was his body that didn’t match, strange and foreign and not quite right. It didn’t matter what he did, he couldn’t reconcile the body in the mirror with the one in his memories, and that was the source of his disconnect. 

***

A knock on the door sounded before Mitch could reply, startling Stiles. He looked over his shoulder, then back at Mitch, eyes wide and nervous. It was the middle of the night, there was no reason for anyone to come calling at this hour. Mitch didn’t seem surprised to have a visitor but he did look frustrated, if his scowl was anything to go by. Stiles really hoped the person on the other side wasn’t some shady mafia contact that would kill him for being a witness to whatever deal they were about to negotiate. 

Mitch pushed away from the counter and went to open the door. He didn’t order Stiles to go to his room, to not listen in. Hopefully that was a good sign. Stiles turned around in his seat and held his mug close to his chest, drawing on the warmth to ground him while he watched with bated breath. 

“Can I help you?” Mitch asked tersely. Stiles couldn’t see around him to see who was at the door, but they were certainly unwelcome. 

“A neighbor reported hearing screaming in here,” Stiles heard a man say. Embarrassment crawled up the back of his neck and settled around his throat like a yoke. Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one foot, allowing just enough space for Stiles to see past him. He could just make out the silhouette of an officer, see the gun holstered at his hip. A hand casually rested just above it, thumb looped through the belt. 

“My brother was just having a nightmare.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to come in and have a look around. Make sure everything’s kosher.” Stiles stomach curled uncomfortably; he couldn’t imagine ignoring such a clear dismissal from his brother, and not with such confidence. 

Mitch hesitated. Stiles thought for sure he was about to slam the door in the officer’s face. A part of him hoped his brother would, while the rational side of him - the side that remembered being the son of a cop - knew that would only cause more of a hassle than it was worth. In a city like this, lack of cooperation was as soon as an admission of guilt. Mitch must have realized the same thing because he glanced back at Stiles, tiredly raked a hand through his messy hair, and stepped aside to let the officer in. 

The blue-uniformed officer entered the apartment. The kitchen light was set low, with the only source coming from the hall, overpowering in the darkness. The officer’s shadow stretched ahead from the door to Stiles’ feet. He looked down on it, watching it distort as the man walked towards him. 

“Are you alright there, son?” the officer asked. He was older, with a kind face and laugh lines around his eyes. The edges of his uniform were familiar but  _ wrong,  _ too blue when Stiles was used to the comfort of soft tan. 

“I’m fine. It was just a nightmare,” Stiles echoed. “I’m sorry for causing trouble.”  _ What if he doesn’t believe me?  _ Terror gripped Stiles’ heart with icy fingers and dragged him down into a frozen bath. “I’ve only been here a few days, and I’m not used to it yet. Big city, y’know? There’s so much going on all the time and the adjustment hasn’t been very easy. I’m from a small town, and I guess I’m just really homesick…” The oxygen fled his lungs on a laugh, a strangled end to his rambling. The officer didn’t take his eyes off Stiles once, watching with scrutinizing blue eyes that were just a few shades too dark to be familiar. His expression was unbearably understanding, bushy brows drawn down in sympathy. It made Stiles want to be sick. It made him miss his father. 

“Anyway, uh… I’m fine. Promise. In fact, I think I’m just going to go to bed if that’s alright?” Stiles put his mug back on the counter, but in his scramble to get up and get away he knocked it over. It shattered on the ground, spilling sticky milk all over the ground. 

“Skype your parents in the morning, son. It helps.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Have a good night, officer,” Mitch said, just on the wrong side of polite. He closed the door once the officer left and came over to where Stiles was frozen to the spot, his heartbeat rabbiting in his chest. “Careful,” he warned, crouching down to pick up the shattered pieces of ceramic. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Stiles choked out, his eyes stinging. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Mitch got up and threw away the pieces, then got a dish towel to clean up the rest of the milk. When he came back he noticed Stiles staring at the puddle with red-rimmed eyes, picking at his nails again. “Stiles, it’s okay. It was just a cup. I’ve got three more just like it.” 

Stiles nodded to show he understood, couldn’t quite make his voice work. It was just a cup, it didn’t matter. It could be replaced. But then why did it feel like something more, time slowing as it fell. 

He took the towel from Mitch. The least he could do was clean up after himself when he broke something and couldn’t fix it. 

***

Stiles wished he knew what his future held. So much of his anxiety stemmed from not knowing what came next. At first, he was just worried about making friends in high school and getting Lydia to notice him, without incurring the wrath of her then-boyfriend Jackson. Then the universe decided to throw werewolves and kanimas and a goddamn  _ Nogitsune  _ at him. If he at least knew what to expect, maybe then he could move past the constant, overwhelming dread of the unknown, leave behind his hypervigilance. Even if his future was horrible, filled with more death and mayhem, it would still be better to know, right? Then at least he could prepare himself ahead of time. 

“Do you know any good psychics?” Stiles asked morosely. After the incident in the kitchen they migrated over to the living room, Stiles curled up in one corner of the couch while Mitch took up the other. He was far enough away that Stiles couldn’t feel his warmth. He tried not to dwell on it too much. 

“No. But I did have a phase in high school where I was into all that fortune telling bullshit.” 

“ _ What? _ ” Stiles asked incredulously. That was the last thing he would expect from his brother. Mitch quirked a small, self-deprecating smile. 

“Yeah, I know. Don’t look at me like that, everyone tries it eventually.” 

“I know, I just… can’t imagine  _ you  _ being into fortune telling. Did you have a crystal collection? Candles?” Stiles gasped dramatically, covering his mouth. “Did you have  _ tarot cards? _ ” 

“If I knew you were going to be such a punk I wouldn’t have brought it up.” 

“Not a very good psychic if you couldn’t even tell that much.” Stiles grinned wide. He didn’t know if psychics really existed - with everything else he knew to be true, why couldn’t they? He was supposedly a Spark, so other forms of magic had to exist too, right? “This is the coolest thing. Please, tell me all about your foray into fortune telling, and don’t spare any of the details.”

“God,  _ fine. _ ” Mitch rolled his eyes, but indulgently continued. “It’s not a very happy story though.” 

“That’s okay, I don’t mind sad stories.” God knew he had lived through enough of them, he’d become accustomed. 

“Alright. I was fifteen or sixteen, I think. It was after mom died. Most people turn to religion after something like that, but I guess I was too much of a rebellious teen for that. And I’ve always thought organized religion was bullshit. So I started looking up how to do seance’s instead. And yes, before you ask, I did try a ouija board once. 

“The short version is, nothing I tried worked. Of course. I never really thought it would, I guess it was just a way for me to process what happened.” If Stiles had been older when Claudia died he probably would have tried the same thing. Strangely, ever since the werewolves burst into his life and he found out magic was real, the last thing on his mind has been trying to contact the dead. A spark of guilt tried to ignite but he stamped it out before it had the chance to consume him. 

“What did your dad think about all of that?” 

“Nothing, he was dead, too. Died the same day as mom, actually.” 

Stiles reeled back in shock at that information. Since finding the picture he’d been wondering what happened to Mitch’s father, figured they were just estranged from each other. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, what with how Mitch reacted last time Stiles brought him up. There was definitely no love lost for him. 

“What happened to him?” Stiles cautiously asked. 

“Dunno. He was fine and then he wasn’t. I don’t really remember what happened.” 

“Were you there?”

“... Yes.”  _ He’s not telling me something.  _ Clearly there was more to that story. 

“Was it like a heart attack or something?”

“Or something. I don’t know. There was never a definitive answer on the cause of death.” 

_ What the fuck? _

Stiles was slightly disturbed about the blasé way Mitch talked about his father. Emotionless. Cold. He wanted to dig in deeper until he found the root of that apathy, but Mitch may as well have been Fort Knox for how hard he was to get into. All of his secrets were locked up tight, and it made Stiles burn with a familiar curiosity, a need to  _ know.  _ That brief flare of familiarity made him want to smile; maybe there was still some of his old self left after all. 

***

“Do you know how to read tea leaves?” Stiles asked. 

“No.”

“Tarot cards?”

“No.”

“How about palmistry?” Mitch hesitated just long enough that Stiles took it as a yes. He got onto his knees and crawled across the short distance between them, shivering at the warmth around him when he got right into Mitch’s space and thrust his hand at him. “Read my future,” he demanded. Mitch turned to face him, drawing his legs up to cross. 

“Fine.” Mitch took Stiles’ wrist and pulled his hand up for a quick glance, then dropped it. “Give me your other hand.” 

Stiles’ hands were cold and pale, spindly like a corpse. Lines cut through his palms like furrows in the dirt, paths trodden by dozens of feet leading to mass graves. Just off center they all intersected into an ‘M’.  _ Monster,  _ he thought. 

Mitch held his hand flat and cradled his wrist, thumb resting on Stiles’ pulse point. Just that small touch was enough to send his blood rushing. Mitch traced the lines with his fingertip, leaving heat in his wake that sent chills up Stiles’ arm. Long sleeves hid the reaction. Mitch looked so focused; Stiles was fascinated, wondering what Mitch could see in his skin. If the blood stains were obvious, or if, to his brother, his hands were clean. 

He wondered if the lines were different now, if the Nogitsune had rewritten his future with the gift of this strange body. 

“This is your life line,” Mitch said, tracing along the line at the base of his thumb to indicate it. “Pretty sure it means you’ll be alive for a while.” Stiles snorted. 

“Thanks.” He sat back a little bit, back curving and shoulders slumping forward as he relaxed. What did he really expect, for Mitch to break out the candles and crystals and fog machine? Still, it was fun to pretend, and he appreciated that Mitch was indulging him. 

“I never said I was any good at this.” Mitch smiled. Stiles couldn’t help but return it with a small quirk of his own, self-conscious and shy. It was stupid that he’d even asked for this in the first place, but if Mitch was willing to play along…. 

“Okay, what else?”

“There’s a break in your life line, before it splits off.” Mitch pulled Stiles’ hand closer, humming thoughtfully. His expression was pensive, oblivious to the way Stiles’ heart started to race. “I’m not actually sure what that means. Maybe… hm.” 

“What? What do you  _ think  _ it means?” All Stiles could hear was a death knell tolling in his head. Was it possible Mitch knew about the Nogitsune? Could he read it in the lines on his palm? Stiles’ soul had been split by the demon, there was no other reason he could think of for his lifeline to fork off into two lines, than when the Nogitsune stole his body and forced him into this one. 

Mitch replaced his scowl with an uncertain smile, dropping Stiles’ hand. “I don’t know. I told you I’m not good at this. Fortune telling is bullshit anyway.” 

“Right…” Stiles wanted to believe him, but at the same time.... What if there  _ was  _ more to it than that? 

***

The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon, soft orange rays pushing back the indigo blue of night. Stiles yawned. Beside him Mitch stretched his arms over head. Both of them were exhausted from staying up all night; Stiles felt guilty that Mitch stayed up with him, but he was too grateful for the company to protest. 

“Let’s get out of here,” his brother said out of nowhere, startling in the silence. Stiles turned to face him slowly, like a sloth. His body was sluggish but his mind was wired. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The last thing Stiles wanted after his episode last night was to be surrounded by people, nameless faces in a crowd pressing in on him, suffocating him. Oblivious to the dangers he presented. Mitch was insistent. Stiles got the feeling he was used to getting what he wanted. 

“You can’t spend all your time cooped up.”

“Why not?” That method had been working well for him so far; Stiles couldn’t hurt anyone if there was no one around for him to hurt. It didn’t matter when he was only hurting himself. 

“Because you’re not a bird. Let’s go.” Mitch got up and looked at Stiles expectantly. “Don’t make me carry you.” 

“You couldn’t.” Stiles actually had no doubt that Mitch could. A part of him - the part he tried not to listen to most of the time - just wanted to challenge Mitch to see if he  _ would.  _ To feel those strong arms around him again.  _ Goading people into touching you instead of just asking for affection is not healthy,  _ Stiles thought.  _ Shut up, logic brain. I don’t want to hear from you right now.  _

Stiles stood up and skirted around Mitch. He didn’t deserve affection, his brother’s easy touch. Denial was his penance for the pain his hands have caused. 

“Put on something warm, it might snow later,” Mitch called after him. Stiles gave him a thumbs up over his shoulder before disappearing into the guest room. 

The suitcase sat mockingly on the ground, unpacked and mostly ignored. Stiles crouched down to drag out more weather-appropriate clothes. The jacket his dad made him bring was all the way at the bottom. Stiles paused before taking it out; it would be a simple thing to leave it, tell Mitch he forgot it at home. He’d probably loan Stiles his jacket again. 

Stiles took the jacket out of his suitcase and put it on the bed with more force than necessary, clenching his jaw. Resorting to underhanded tactics for something as small as comfort - that was not the kind of person he wanted to become. 

The jacket was soon followed by a t-shirt, long-sleeved shirt, and his softest flannel. Hopefully the layers would be enough to ward off the outside cold, even if he knew they would do nothing for the permanent chilling ache in his bones. 

Stiles dragged his feet getting dressed. Not quite intentionally, he was stiff after sitting curled up on the couch for hours, trying to make himself small enough to disappear, collapse in on himself like a black hole. But then his gravity would only draw people in, and that was the last thing he wanted. Enough people have already been hurt by the void. 

By the time Stiles came shuffling out Mitch was fully dressed and making coffee. He looked a lot better than Stiles, composed and awake like he did this all the time. Stiles remembered the bruises on his back and thought that this wasn’t the first sleepless night Mitch had gotten this week. Yet another mystery he didn’t quite have the motivation to unravel.

“Are you hungry?” 

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. “Not really. I wouldn’t say no to coffee, though.”

“Breakfast of champions,” Mitch agreed. He pulled two travel mugs out of the cabinet. 

***

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked in the car. 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Mitch answered vaguely. 

_ This is it, I’m about to be fucking murdered.  _ Stiles hid behind his coffee to conceal his uneasiness. It was actually amazing, not bad at all for a last meal. If he survived the day he would have to ask Mitch how he made it. The taste was smooth and dark, a suitable substitute for his illicit cravings. 

The traffic was somewhat lighter this early in the morning. Stiles slumped low in his seat, peering over the edge of the window so that he could see without being seen. The city was filled with dead-eyed pedestrians trudging along their routes, ignorant to everything that didn’t directly affect them. Glass skyscrapers cut into the sky, decorating the city like a monument to greed and hubris. Smaller shops were swallowed by apartments stacked overhead, blending into each other, an ouroboros of brick. 

A bookstore caught Stiles’ attention. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it, and yet his unfocused eyes were drawn to the windows. Windchimes hung just past the glass made from shells and beads and wood. The design on the door made the tip of his tongue itch with the answer to a question he didn’t know to ask. 

Before Stiles could put words to it the light turned green and they continued on their journey into the heart of the city. As they got farther away from the shop the world faded back out of focus. Stiles leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes against the haze that descended over the city. 

***

“Where are we?” 

“Central Park.” Stiles made a soft ‘oh’, looking around. It must be breathtaking to see in spring, when everything was alive and thriving. Now it’s hibernating, life hidden deep in bark and roots to escape the chill of winter, the trees barren and the ground covered in frost. “Worth leaving the apartment for?” Mitch asked knowingly. Stiles gave him a small smile. 

“Maybe.” 

“Come on.” 

The park was all but a ghost town so early in the morning. It was somehow fitting. Aside from the occasional runner they were completely alone. 

“Do you come here often?” Stiles asked. His cheeks warmed when he realized how juvenile that sounded. MItch gave him a sly smirk that made his blush deepen. 

“Yeah, a couple times a week. I like to run in the morning.” 

“Ugh, why am I not surprised?” Still though, Stiles could see the appeal. When he ran it was usually for his life, but maybe if he lived near a beautiful, peaceful place like this he would be encouraged to change his connotations. The Preserve didn’t count, not after all the bad shit that’s gone down there. If Stiles never saw that place again it would be too soon. 

The early morning air was crisp and clean. Stiles’ breath ghosted in front of his face, dampening his skin as he walked through the little clouds. Mitch was a steady presence beside him. Stiles was grateful he was there, didn’t think he would have been able to leave the apartment otherwise. 

As they walked through the park the sky began to lighten and more people filtered in. No longer did it feel like just the two of them alone in the world when Stiles could hear barking dogs down the path and swiftly approaching cyclists. Off in the distance he could see a group of women setting up for an early morning yoga class. 

Stiles stumbled over uneven pavement and pitched forward, caught himself. When he looked around everything was familiar and foreign, a film obscuring his surroundings. Faceless people milled around him, harsh breaths gusting out of open mouths like a death rattle. 

A warm hand closed around his own, shaking and cold, drawing him back from the edge. Stiles felt nauseous as he clung to his brother.

Mitch pulled Stiles away from the path, walking him across the manicured lawn. It was becoming overcrowded and overwhelming. 

After a few minutes they found a corner of the park where there were no people at all. A peaceful grove for just them. Mitch didn’t let go of his hand and Stiles felt like it was a little easier to breathe. 

“You need gloves,” Mitch said, his voice cutting through the ringing in Stiles’ ears. Stiles ignored him. 

“Thank you,” he said on an exhale, looking down at their joined hands. Mitch feigned ignorance. 

“For what?”

_ For bringing me back. For not letting me drown.  _

“For getting me outside. I… I needed it.” It’s been so long since Stiles was last outdoors just for the sake of it. Weeks have blended together, each day indistinguishable from the last when it was spent hidden away in his room under a mountain of blankets. As if that would be enough to protect him from the consequences of his actions.

Mitch didn’t know about all of that, though. The Nogitsune, the death, the spectre that followed him. He didn’t know Stiles wasn’t just a depressed kid like any other. Stiles ached to tell him everything, to defend himself against accusations that haven’t been made. He swallowed back the impulse, knowing Mitch would never believe him. Even if there was something about Mitch, a line had to be drawn somewhere. The supernatural was it for most people. 

“You’d be surprised what a little fresh air and sunlight can do,” Mitch said lightly. He offered a small smile, squeezed Stiles’ hand as if to say  _ I understand, and it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.  _ Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Projection. He chose to take it as the former. 

***

The apartment was warm and safe from the dangers outside - or rather, the outside was safe from the dangers he presented. But the crisp winter air was a rejuvenating kind of burn in his lungs. The pain reminded him he was still alive, if not living. 

“What’s your favorite place in New York?”

“The city or the state?”

“City, I guess.” 

“This little Italian hole in the wall. Good food, great people. I spent a lot of time there in highschool.” 

“Huh.”

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Not really.” 

“Guess I’m full of surprises.” Mitch knocked their shoulders together, and Stiles was struck with the abrupt thought of what it would have been like to grow up with an older brother around. “What about you, what’s your favorite part of Beacon Hills?”

“I dunno.” Made to think about it, Stiles couldn’t come up with anything. He didn’t spend much time at the Sheriff’s station, and it hardly felt like a home after he had destroyed it. So much of his childhood had been spent at the hospital but few of those times were happy memories. The school was dangerous and the Preserve was worse. Even his house didn’t feel like a home, when it was constantly haunted by the memory of his mother. “I guess I don’t really have one. It’s not… Beacon Hills isn’t a very good place.”

When Stiles risked a glance at Mitch, he caught the unguarded way Mitch looked at him, an expression Stiles couldn’t quite decipher. He was taken back by the genuineness of it. One thing was certain, however; remorse that Stiles couldn’t call to mind a place he loved. 

Sometime along the way he’d lost his home, and that's why leaving Beacon Hills for the unknown had been so easy. It was a painful truth to realize. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! I have no idea what the update schedule is going to look like from now on, probably sporadic, but I am fully intending to have the last chapter posted Christmas! So however the timing on that works out, we'll see what happens. Probably something like once a month, but it might end up much more frequent towards the end, I have literally no idea how this is going to play out. But I think it's time to start picking up the pace with this story, and some fun things are coming!
> 
> Edit: what do you think guys, should the next chapter be from Mitch’s POV? Have I made you wait long enough?


	6. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch's childhood wasn't as easy as most would expect, and Stiles finally get a little bit of a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to finally get the first part of this chapter posted, with some of Mitch's backstory. I've planned to have it in for months, but I just couldn't figure out how to write it for the life of me. After working at it this month I'm actually really pleased with it, and I hope you guys like it too!

Mitch was fifteen years old, sitting across from his father’s desk with a bruised jaw and notice of suspension. He was fighting at school again; seemed like he did that a lot lately. It wasn’t like he went _looking_ for a fight, and he was never the one to start it. Even when he threw the first punch—like this time—it was only because he was _provoked._

Of course, that didn’t matter to his father. Robert Rapp has spent the last half hour grilling him while his new girlfriend, _Audrey_ , stood behind him with that smug look she always wore when Robert couldn’t see but Mitch could. The evil harpy took a special kind of satisfaction in driving a wedge between the two of them. 

“Do you even care what the fight was about?” Mitch asked, interrupting his father’s tirade. The reason was _important._

“No,” Robert said, his white-hot anger cooling to something icy and so much worse. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. You have no reason to fight, ever. Do you know how this will look for me, to have my son getting suspended for fighting, _again_?” 

Mitch rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot everything’s about you.” He wanted to _leave._ “It was about mom.” Behind Robert, Audrey stiffened at the mention of her predecessor, standing straighter. She put her hand on Robert’s shoulder and Mitch glared at her defiantly. _You’re never going to replace her,_ he wanted to say. Robert may be content with his trade off, but Mitch never would be. Audrey couldn’t hold a candle to his mom. 

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about you fighting anymore, do you understand me?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Can I go now, or are you gonna yell at me some more?” 

“You should show your father more respect, he’s only trying to protect your future,” Audrey said coolly. Mitch didn’t believe her for a second. The only part of his future she was interested in was his inheritance, and making sure he never saw it. She plucked the suspension slip elegantly off the desk in one dainty move and held it up for scrutiny, not bothering to read a single word. “This is what, your fifth suspension this semester?” 

“Fourth,” Mitch gritted through his teeth. 

“Still, that’s quite a few.” Her lips twisted into an ugly smile. “There’s a school in Virginia that I think Mitch would benefit from.” She spoke now to Robert, ignoring Mitch entirely. The casual dismissal made him bristle with the sheer nerve of it. “They take… special care with troubled youths. Their approach towards discipline is very effective, I’ve heard. The head of the school is a former drill sergeant. Many of the teachers are affiliated with the military as well. I’m sure I could call in a few favors and get Mitch a place, if you’d like to. It’s up to you of course, darling.” 

“You—are you kidding me? You want to send me to a _military school?_ Good fucking luck with that.” There was no way his dad would actually send him away. Not even for his latest beau. Between the two of them, Robert was likely to get rid of her first, and she’d figure that out soon enough. Mitch took a perverse kind of pleasure in telling her exactly that. “Dad will get rid of you too when he gets bored, he always does. How old are you by the way? Almost thirty, right?” Audrey was getting too comfortable with Robert, thinking her place with him was secure. The six women before her did, too, but Robert always traded in for the younger model before long.

“Enough!” Robert barked, slamming his hand down on the table. Audrey startled, but Mitch didn’t even flinch. “If you don’t get your act together, maybe that’s exactly what you need. Clearly I’m not enough to keep you in line.”

“Might help if you were ever around.” Mitch stood and jerked his backpack off the floor, needing to get away. He didn’t want to sit here while they planned to get rid of him. His father was blind if he couldn’t see what Audrey was doing, cutting Mitch out of the picture. She’d already replaced his mom, why not get rid of him as well? Make it so that all of Robert’s attention—and money—was hers for the taking. “If you’re so eager to send me away, then let me go stay with mom.” 

“Your mother doesn’t want you,” Robert said to Mitch’s retreating back. “Or did you forget that?” 

Cheeks burning, Mitch slammed the door to his father’s office hard enough to make the mounted plaques rattle on the wall and stormed off towards his room, fighting the pointless urge to cry. He wouldn’t give either of them the satisfaction, even if they couldn’t see him. 

It wasn’t fucking true. She _did._ Mitch knew she did. His mom loved him, was the only one in his life who did, and his father couldn’t take that away from him. Mitch wouldn’t let him. 

But there was always that insidious voice in the back of his mind that had to ask: _if she wanted you, then why didn’t she fight harder to keep you?_ Mitch took a deep, uneven breath, trying to steady himself. His eyes burned and his lungs hurt, and the only small comfort he had was what he knew to be true. _She couldn't._

It was the same thing he always told himself. After the divorce she wasn’t in any position to become a single mother. She couldn’t have taken care of him even though she must have wanted to, because she had to figure her own life out. It was a cold comfort but Mitch found himself clinging to it anyway. It was all he had. 

Mitch threw his backpack on his bed and dropped down beside it, rubbing his aching jaw with one hand and his stinging eyes with the other. He should have gotten some ice for it before leaving; now the last thing he wanted was to see his dad or Audrey again. 

Like merely thinking of her was enough to summon her, Mitch’s phone rang with his mom’s distinct ringtone not even a minute later. Mitch scrambled to get it out of his pocket and answer, clutching the phone. Briefly, the familiar ring was almost a substitute for having her with him. It was certainly becoming more familiar than her voice as the years moved on. 

"Mom?"

"Hey, baby. Are you okay?" Claudia asked warmly. Something in Mitch’s chest loosened at just hearing her voice. 

"Not really… How'd you know?"

"A mother always knows." He could hear her smile, desperately wished he could see it. He hadn't seen her in so long, almost two years now. Claudia had only visited him a handful of times since the divorce was officially finalized. He was starting to forget what she looked like, only had a few pictures left of her to remind him, but they were old and worn now. Even her voice over the line was a distorted crackle, nothing like what he remembered. Like the pictures, his memories were fading. 

"Can I come stay with you for a while?" Mitch was desperate to get away from New York, if only for a little while. Dealing with everything—his school, his dad, _Audrey_ —was too much. He needed a break or he was going to explode. 

"No, baby, I’m sorry." Just like that, his chest was seizing up again, a bitter kind of agony wrapping around his heart and lungs and _squeezing_. But he couldn’t resign himself to her denial, desperately pleading with naïve hope that it would be enough to change her mind. Even if it never had been before. 

"Please? Spring break is next week, and it’s been a long time—"

"No, Mitch." The harsh finality in her tone cracked like lightning. He flinched away from the phone, wilting. It hurt more than when she left him behind all those years ago. Watching his mom in the courtroom that day, signing the papers that would allow Robert to take him away from her forever, was more pain than his younger self could have ever imagined. Why didn’t she fight for him? Why hadn’t she shed a single tear while he’d been sobbing for her not to leave him? 

It was made worse by the realization that Robert didn’t want him either. Had never wanted children if it meant caring for them himself. He wanted a legacy, not a son, and Mitch was handed off to a string of nannies until he was old enough to fend for himself and realize that they only ever cared for him because they were paid to. He was tired of the false niceties, how he never _really mattered_ to anyone. 

Except for his mom. All that time, she was his sanctuary. Her phone calls and sporadic visits were the only reminder that Mitch wasn’t entirely alone in the world. Now, he didn’t even have that much as his humble fantasy came crashing down and reality set in. 

No one wanted him.

Unbidden, tears gathered in his eyes again, and he couldn’t blink them back this time. They dripped poisonously down his cheeks, burning his skin. "Don’t you want me anymore?" he asked, voice breaking. He was afraid of what the answer would be, Robert’s hateful words echoing in the back of his mind, _your mother doesn’t want you_. Claudia sighed, sounding suddenly so weary. It should have been a simple question to answer. 

"Of course I do, baby. I miss you so much,” she said, trying to placate him. Mitch wasn’t having it; he was tired of empty words from everyone in his life. Tired of the uncertainty they brought. 

"Then let me come see you!"

"You can't, Mitch. I wish you could, but you can't."

"Why not?"

"… I can't tell you that. Just know that I want nothing more than to have you with me, but you're better off with your father."

"No I'm not. I hate him."

"Your father is a good man, sweetheart."

"How can you say that?" His mother _left him_ because of his father, and he replaced her with an evil bitch. Mitch could never forgive him for that. The day they announced their divorce was one of the worst days of his life. It was tied with when Claudia left before the divorce was official, when they were just on a “break” and she went back to California. Then the day of the custody hearing when she gave him up without a fight. Signed him away like he was a puppy she couldn’t look after anymore. 

"Adults are… complicated. Your father made mistakes, but he's not a bad man. He's just an idiot at times." Any other time that would have gotten a smile out of Mitch. Likely that was her intention, but it fell short. He didn’t have any energy left to pretend he was alright for her sake. "Enough about that. Why don't you tell me what you've been doing, sweetheart? How is lacrosse?"

"I… I can't. I've got a test tomorrow, I should probably study for it."

"Mitch wait—" 

"Talk to you later, mom."

Mitch hung up and tossed his phone aside. The silence that followed was ringing and hollow. He really was alone. 

***

“I’ve got to go to the store. Do you want to come with me?” Mitch asked when they got back into the warm refuge of his car. Stiles picked at his nails compulsively, staring down at his hands. They were still red and numb from the cold. He could barely feel his nails digging beneath his cuticles, blanching his skin bone-white. 

Walking around Central Park was nice, relaxing even, but Stiles didn’t think he was ready to take on the faceless masses yet. 

“I think I’ve had enough socialization today,” he mumbled. Mitch didn’t push, driving back to the apartment to drop Stiles off, and he was grateful. All around them the city was waking up, the streets full of commuters and swarming down the sidewalks in a controlled kind of chaos. Empty space on the sidewalks quickly disappeared, leaving no room to breathe. 

“Text me if you think of anything you need,” Mitch said before Stiles got out. 

“Will do.” 

Now that he was alone, without Mitch’s confidence to guide him, the apartment was daunting. The chandelier glittered above the lobby in a careful arrangement of glass shards just waiting to rain down on him, death coming by a thousand cuts and entirely deserved. They would slide into his flesh and make him bleed, ravaging his fingers when he tried to dig them out, leaving nothing left of his fingerprints to identify him by when the corpse was found.

Stiles averted his eyes and quickly crossed the floor to take refuge in the elevator as soon as he heard the doors _ding!_ open, where he was joined by another resident. Stiles hoped he didn’t look too out of place in comparison to the expensively dressed woman, and found himself wondering if her coat was made out of real fur. Probably mink, or something else cute and fluffy that died for her vanity. She got out on the second floor without having spared him a single glance, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he could no longer be seen. The click of her red-bottom heels was a harsh reminder of Lydia, stalking down the halls with the regality of a queen and the intensity of a predator. 

Stiles took out his phone to tap out a quick text to her, and then his father as well, figuring he should check up on how things were doing back home. Maintaining his relationships was key to pretending he was getting better, and Stiles intended to put on a convincing performance.

***

It was still early morning, but Stiles wasn’t hungry. He bypassed the kitchen and ducked briefly into his room to retrieve his laptop and some Adderall, then flopped onto his bed. 

On a whim he opened up his email, not expecting anything but hopeful in the same way all idle persons are. There were a few notifications and newsletter updates; an email notifying him his game subscription had run out; another one from his online course coordinator telling him not to fall behind with his missing work. Nothing immediately pressing. 

Stiles tapped the side of his laptop thoughtfully. Danny was still in his contacts after their lab project…. He clicked compose.

_To: dmahelani@bhhs.edu_

_Subject: Hackervoice: I’m In_

_Hey man, long time no talk. If, hypothetically, I wanted to track someone’s location without them knowing, how would I do it?_

Stiles sent the email and chewed on his thumbnail waiting for a response, even though logically he knew he wouldn’t get one immediately. Most of California was still asleep. 

“This is stupid,” Stiles told himself. He closed out of gmail and opened up his online school instead. The only condition for his dad allowing him to come to New York was that he had to keep up on his school work. It might even do him some good, who knows?

English was the first subject on his to-do list. A bit of a sore spot for him after the problems Ms. Blake caused, so he went to the next item: Pre-calc. That was a straight-forward subject that came with no painful connotations like a kill code written on the board of his chemistry class, or the history floor stained with his best friend’s blood.

He opened the module and got to work.

***

Stiles’ phone jolted him back to attention forty-five minutes later, pulling him out of his academic haze. It buzzed incessantly on the coffee table, where he’d migrated to once the need for a desk reared its ugly head, and Stiles almost missed the call in the time it took to unearth the damn thing from where it was buried under a pile of notes.

“Sup, dad?” Stiles answered around the pen in his mouth. 

“Stiles. Want to explain why I just got an email from your teacher that you haven’t been keeping up with your studies?” Stiles winced at the disappointment in his dad’s tone. Worse was the underlying worry. New York was supposed to help him, not make him worse. Back home he’d at least been doing the bare minimum; here, he hasn’t even done that much. 

“Yeah, about that… It’s just been a rough few days, y'know? Getting settled in and all that. I’m actually working on my homework right now, though, getting all caught up. Don’t worry about it.” 

“I do worry, it’s kind of my job.” 

“I know….” John’s sigh crackled over the line. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m doing really good, actually.” Stiles smiled, thinking of this morning. He was exhausted after a night of not sleeping, but he also felt so _alive._ Motivated. The day was beautiful, with mostly-clear skies painted with fluffy clouds. The sun still hid behind the city skyline, but the panes of glass reflected its light and directed it into the apartment through the big picture windows. If not for his homework Stiles might be tempted to go sit in the sun and watch the people move through the city beneath him. Maybe he could even go down and join them, get some mountain dew from the shop on the corner. Mitch told him to text if he needed anything, but that wasn’t too far, was it? Just a short walk down the street, a quick run for some junk food—since so far, the apartment seemed to be lacking in teenager-approved snacks, and he needed something to munch on while he studied—and he would be back before anyone missed him. 

Stiles flipped to a new page in his notebook and started scribbling down a small shopping list for himself; Mountain Dew, chips, _candy_ —underline three times, how could he be expected to be productive if he didn’t have his customary twizzlers and peanut butter cups?—maybe he should get a silly postcard for his dad, too. Something appropriately cheesy and touristy, and oh right, _his dad._

“Mitch and I went to Central Park this morning,” Stiles said, trying to cover himself after forgetting about his dad for a minute there. “It’s really cool.” 

Maybe it was the Adderall making him so buzzed. Or maybe the distance from Beacon Hills was finally starting to pay off. A few weeks from now he might be able to meet his reflection without flinching, or open a door by himself. _Don’t go mad with power,_ Stiles thought, laughing to himself. Today, a trip down to the convenience store, tomorrow joining the faceless masses. Facing himself was a worry for another day. 

“Really? It’s got to be about 8am over there, what were you doing out so early?”

“Oh, y’know, just couldn’t sleep. And he’s a freak that wakes up early to work out.” It was a white lie at best. Stiles tried not to feel guilty for it. If there was anyone he could talk to about his nightmares, it was his dad, but he had enough on his plate. Stiles getting out of Beacon Hills was about giving his dad some breathing room, too. The nightmares were taking as much of a toll on his dad as they were on Stiles. “It was cool, though, since there weren’t many people around that early. And I can’t wait to see what it’s like when it starts snowing.” 

His father paused, and Stiles tensed. The silence was heavy, stretching uncomfortably while he searched for something to say. 

“Do you think you’ll still be there when winter hits?” John asked carefully. Stiles chewed his bottom lip. 

“I mean… it was snowing when I got here the other day. There just hasn’t been a big storm yet, but there probably will be soon.” An excuse was better than the truth: That Stiles didn’t want to go back home; that he still wouldn’t, not a week from now, not a month from now. A year. He didn’t know if he’d ever want to go home again, and the thought made him sick. “Anyway. How’s things there?”

“Quiet. Nothing to worry about. Derek and I have been keeping an eye on things, I’m thinking of hiring him as an official consultant.” Stiles whistled. 

“What does he think about that?”

“Dunno, I haven’t asked yet.” Stiles had no doubt Derek would be good at it. There would be no reason for him to turn down the offer. Then again, Derek wasn’t good at letting himself have nice things - the pack had only just convinced him to invest in a TV a few weeks before the Nogitsune business started. 

“What about Scott, has he been taking care of you?”

“Melissa has.”

“Oh?” Stiles’ lips curled in a Grinch-like smile. Immediately his father knew what he was on to and tried to back track. 

“Now, it’s not like that.”

“Like what? I didn’t say anything.”

“Uh-huh, you were thinking it.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking, which means you were assuming I would think it because it _is_ like that. Check and mate.” 

“For the love of God…”

“Is she there right now?”

“... No.” Stiles smirked. 

“Say hi for me.”

“I’m not falling for your ploy to confirm or deny that there is anything going on between Melissa and I.” John paused again to mull things over. Stiles could practically hear him thinking on the other end of the line. He solved two more problems in the time it took his dad to work up the courage to ask, “Would you be okay with it, hypothetically?”

“Yeah, dad, of course. Scott and I have not-so-hypothetically been trying to hook you two up for years.” Maybe once Stiles would have been hurt that his dad was moving on. Now all he wanted was for his dad to be with someone who could make him happy. Then Stiles wouldn’t have to feel so guilty when he didn’t come home. “Do you have to go to work soon?” 

“Nah, just got off a shift actually.”

“Oh, then I should let you go and sleep.” No wonder his dad sounded so tired. 

“Yeah… Make sure you keep up on your work, kid, you don’t want to have to repeat this year.” 

“ _God,_ yeah, no, that would actually be a nightmare. Of epic proportion. I won’t slip behind.” 

“Good, make sure you don’t. Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Night, dad, love you.”

“Love you too, kiddo.” 

Stiles hung up and put his phone back on the table. He looked around at the progress he’d made, a mess of notes covering just about every available surface from every class he had. He was making his way through Algebra 2 when his dad called, but was starting to get a headache. He’d text Lydia for help later. Probably. Maybe. 

Moving on from Algebra, Stiles clicked into a different subject. Online school was so much easier, he should have been doing this from the start. All he had to do was click through the lessons and take the short quizzes at the end of each one. When it came time for the actual timed test, he just googled the answers in a separate tab. 

_Yeah, I should have been doing this the entire time. Regular school can bite me._

***

After he started to get bored and need a break, Stiles sent off a quick text to Scott. 

 **Stiles** **  
**_Dude your mom is totally banging my dad._

 **Scott** **  
**_What!?_

Good old oblivious Scott. 

 **Stiles** **  
**_Yeah man. Mel’s scoring. Should I send a fruit basket? I’m thinking tropical themes, some bananas and kiwis, maybe a melon or two._

 **Scott** **  
**_You’re sick, dude._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Probably. How are things? We haven’t talked in a hot minute._

 **Scott** **  
**_Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been busy I guess. School is kicking my ass and Derek’s been helping me train._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Nice. learn any cool stuff?_

 **Scott**   
_Eh. I’m better at tracking. Any we’ve been working on chemosignals. And uh.. I guess I should mention Chris left. Isaac too. They went to France._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Oh._

Stiles swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wasn’t surprised Chris left. Honestly expected it to happen sooner. Seeing him at Allison’s funeral was brutal. The man hadn’t even been able to look at him, walked right past when Stiles tried to apologize, not that Stiles blamed him. He got his daughter killed. Stiles typed with shaking fingers. 

 **Stiles** **  
**_Are you okay?_

 **Scott** **  
**_I dunno. It hurts, but I’m dealing with it. Lydia’s worse though._

 **Stiles** **  
**_I can imagine._

 **Scott** **  
**_Have you talked to her?_

 **Stiles** **  
**_Texted a few times. It’s easier for her, I think._

Then she didn’t have to hear his voice in her ear and remember the nogitsune tormenting her. 

 **Stiles** **  
**_Last I saw she was in tahoe._

 **Scott** **  
**_Her mom pulled her out of school. It’s just me and Kira now, and Derek. And Peter but he doesn’t count._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Has he been causing problems?_

 **Scott** **  
**_Nah, surprisingly. He’s trying to spend time with Malia, but it isn’t going great. She doesn't want anything to do with him._

 **Stiles** **  
**_I knew I liked her for a reason._

Just typing the words made him sick, but Scott didn’t know what happened. Not really. 

 **Stiles** **  
**_How are things with her and Derek?_

 **Scott** **  
**_So weird dude. Like technically they’re cousins? But they don't know each other so they don't know how to act. I mean they don't know how to be normal people anyway, but together it's worse._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Like watching animal planet I'm sure._

 **Scott** **  
**_Kinda lol._

The conversation fizzled out and Stiles didn’t try to reignite it. Talking to Scott was difficult with Allison’s shadow looming over them. Stiles didn’t know what to say to him. It was no wonder Scott avoided him these days. 

Aching to get rid of that bitter taste left in his mouth, he pulled up his last conversation with Derek.

 **Stiles** **  
**_Word on the street has it you’ve been a regular good samaritan lately._

 **Sourwolf** **  
**_What are you talking about?_

 **Stiles** **  
**_Been talking to some peeps. My dad wants to offer you a job._

 **Sourwolf** **  
**_Really._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Yup, told me himself. I think you should accept it._

 **Sourwolf** **  
**_I’ll think about it._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Good. BH could use a functional K9 unit. Poor Sammy is getting old._

 **Sourwolf** **  
**_Screw you, Stiles._

 **Stiles** **  
**_Missed your chance, big guy._

***

Mitch came home while Stiles was working through Econ, by far one of the harder subjects. Interesting, but difficult. At least this was easier than trying to puzzle out whatever analogies Coach was trying to make at any given moment.

“What are you working on?” Mitch asked, putting an armful of groceries on the kitchen bar and looking curiously at the devastation of paper Stiles has wrought upon the living room. 

“Homework.” Stiles rolled his eyes in true teen fashion. “I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you hounding me to do it.” Mitch put his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Not my job, kid. You do whatever you need to do.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles set his laptop aside for now and went to help Mitch put away the groceries. Everything was neatly packed into reusable canvas bags. _Very environmentally sexy of him._ “Where does all this stuff go?” Stiles asked. 

“Cold things in the fridge, not-cold things in the pantry.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles said flatly. “I don’t think I could have figured that out on my own.” Mitch grinned at him. 

“There’s no system, just find a place.” For a few minutes they moved around each other in companionable silence to get everything put away. Stiles noticed a surprising amount of pasta in the pantry, and a total lack of any premade meals. Not even a single can of ravioli or spaghetti-o’s. No pizza rolls in the freezer. _How does he_ live _like this?_ He’d be lost without the comfort of a few carb-heavy, easy to microwave foods in the house. 

“Dude, you have, like, nothing pre-made.” Stiles was impressed and kind of intimidated. He knew his brother was health-conscious, but _damn._

“I prefer to cook from scratch.” 

“Huh.” Made sense. Then Stiles held up a box of spaghetti noodles, shaking it to get Mitch’s attention. “What about these?”

“Have you ever tried to make noodles?”

“No.” 

“Then shut up.” Stiles snorted, finding a place for the pasta in the pantry. He liked the easy companionship and domesticity. No pressing matters looming overhead, and for a little while he could forget about the trauma that brought him here. Just two people putting away groceries and snarking at each other. 

In one of the bags Stiles found had an assorted box of tea that made him smile. It contained his favorite flavor, and Mitch really didn’t strike him as a tea-drinker. It warmed him that his brother had been thinking of him. Although Stiles couldn’t remember ever asking for any. 

“Are you hungry?” Mitch asked once they’d finished. 

“I could eat.” With all of his hard work studying, Stiles had worked up an appetite. “Hey, do you know anything about economics?”

“A thing or two, yeah,” Mitch said with a secretive smile and a mischievous glint in his eye. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “Why?” 

“I need homework help.” 

“Bring it over and I’ll see what I can do.” 

While Mitch set about making their late breakfast, Stiles gathered his Econ notes and laptop and migrated over to the bar, spreading everything out. “Why’d you look at me all weird when I asked what you know?”

“I have a dual degree in business and finance,” Mitch admitted, and there was that sly look again. "Economics was my minor for a while, until I decided I wasn't into that kind of analysis." Stiles was taken aback. 

“What?”

“Not what you expected?”

“Uh… no, not really.” It actually explained a lot, though. “What do you do for work, anyway?”

“A pretty boring office job.”

“Huh.” Stiles didn’t buy that for a second. Someone like Mitch did _not_ spend his days working a nine-to-five desk job.

***

_Now you’re running out of time and you’re talking in your sleep._

Stiles was in a white room, sterile and empty, spanning into the distance with no end in sight. A sinking sense of realization made his stomach churn and his heartbeat quicken: _I’ve been here before._

When Stiles turned in a slow circle to examine the room, what he could see of it, anyway, the Nemeton was nowhere insight. Its absence did little to soothe Stiles—in its place was a sink and mirror. He was far enough away that he couldn’t see his reflection, and was afraid of what he would find if he looked. He turned and ran in the other direction, going nowhere as the room yawned out in front of him, an endless austere cavern. 

Panting and out of breath, Stiles was finally forced to stop, folded over and gasping for air. When he looked up, he saw the mirror again. It taunted him. This time, he didn’t make the conscious decision to walk towards it, something pulled him forward. There was a red string woven through his ribcage and wrapped around his heart, pulled taut and reeling him in. 

Before Stiles got to the mirror he noticed something tacky and sticky pulling at his skin. Blood, slowly drying, congealing. By the time he was forced to confront his reflection he was covered in it. Crimson splashed over alabaster skin. He could taste it in his mouth, sweet like honey. The thought made him wretch, dry heaving into the sink and clutching the edges until the porcelain cracked under his grip. 

“Oh god….” Stiles' face was frozen into a mask of horror. He watched as it morphed into something more terrifying when he met his eyes in the mirror. They were darker than he remembered, almost black. The reflection lifted its hand and slowly licked off the blood. 

“You did it again, Stiles,” the Nogitsune crowed in delight. “You can’t help yourself.” Behind the Nogitsune bodies were piled high, a mound of rotting flesh. Stiles knew all of their faces, saw them every time he closed his eyes. 

A new one crowned the top of the pile. 

Mitch looked _wrong,_ a marionette with its strings cut. He laid disjointed, his head turned towards Stiles, his black eyes open and unseeing. Dull. _Lifeless._

Stiles wretched again, black ichor filling the sink, choking him. It stained his teeth and filled his lungs, and somehow he knew it was his soul. Rotting, black ooze, corrupting him from the inside out. 

_I kill everything I touch._

Stiles was drowning, the ichor too thick to expel, sticking to his throat. The sink overflowed with it, pooling on the ground, an obsidian abyss reaching out, consuming everything in its wake. 

_Void._

And it was still inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: lol only 8 hours and I already had to made an edit. I'm actually a business major but I've been doing it for so fkn long that I forgot there is a degree waiting for me at the end of this, which Mitch presumably would have since he's like 27 and graduated. So I went and changed it from he was a business major to he actually has the degree xD
> 
> So, long time no post. But I am officially BACK. Chapter 7 is mostly written, I just need to wrap up the end and kick it off to my beta, so that should be posted in the next week as well. And chapter 8 is technically halfway done, but I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, it needs some heavy editing. But I have decided on a final chapter amount! I've made an actual outline, and it looks like this is going to be 16 chapters long, so we're almost halfway there. Nano is kicking my ass but I'm actually making progress, so that's always a good thing. 
> 
> No promises for my update schedule because idk what it will be, especially as school is gearing up for finals season, but I think I'm going to try to update once a week. The last chapter I full intend to post on Christmas day, and I'm trying to avoid rapid posting the week leading up... but we'll see how that goes. Whatever happens, this fic will be over on Christmas. Six weeks left to go on this bad boy! 
> 
> Also, I'm just going to say it right now in regards to Mitch and Stiles' budding relationship (which there will be Tension in chapter 9): they were not raised as brothers, they didn't even know about each other until around 3 months ago, and despite them playing the part, they really don't see each other as family. They just don't have that history, and a few weeks together isn't enough to build it. It is however enough time for more illicit feelings to grow. And there will be guilt and internal conflict about it, but not enough to stop it of course, because then I wouldn't have a story! But some people have asked me, and I figured I would just address that here. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys! Leave a comment telling me what you think <3


	7. Mania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a plan.

Stiles tumbled out of bed and ran to the bathroom to check his reflection. There was no blood, no ichor, no bodies. Just neutral paint and blue tiles behind him, stark against his pallor. The circles under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual, his limbs heavy; weeks of fitful sleep—not counting when he hadn't slept at all—exacting its toll on him. 

_ Baby’s got a black soul, _

_ Baby’s got not control.  _

Stiles raked a hand through his hair, searching his bloodshot eyes in the mirror.  _ Am I finally losing it for real?  _ He had to be, couldn’t get that taunting voice out of his head even when he was awake. “I’m going out of my fucking mind,” he said, and laughed, because why the fuck not? He didn’t have anything else left to lose. Not after losing his father, his best friend, his pack, his home. Now not even reality could be his sanctuary. 

Stiles giggled, pulling at his hair. He was hanging on by a thread; his mind was all he  _ had,  _ he couldn’t lose that too. Couldn’t go through hat uncertainty again, of not knowing what was real and what wasn’t. Having no way to tell reality from a dream.  _ What if it never ended?  _ Stiles wondered.  _ What if this is just another trick?  _ Stiles wrenched his hands out of his hair and tried to count his fingers, but they were shaking so bad they blurred together. 

_ You’re learning how to play the game, Stiles,  _ the Nogitsune mocked.  _ Your reality is whatever I want it to be.  _ You  _ are whatever I want you to be.  _

“No,” Stiles said fiercely. “I’m not doing this again. You’re  _ dead.  _ I watched you die!” He was  _ okay  _ now, he had to be. He  _ would  _ be. It was a threat to the shadow of the Nogitsune as much as it was a promise to himself. 

The sudden wave of hysteria was over as fast as it overcame him, doused with ice cold water. Stiles calmed his manic giggles and felt a lot like crying, but he couldn’t muster the energy. What was the point? Crying has never helped him before. Jumping off a building would be a better use of his time than wallowing in his misery. 

Stiles washed his face and decided that this was just one more thing to shove down and repress. His hands were steady, his heart slow, his breaths even. The epitome of control.  _ Fake it until you make it, Stiles. No point in having a complete breakdown this early on.  _

“I’m okay,” Stiles said to his reflection, daring it to challenge him. Hollow brown eyes stared back at him unflinchingly. 

When he left the bathroom, he still heard that strange, taunting song. Louder this time, echoing through the apartment. Coming from somewhere outside of his own head. Scowling, Stiles followed the music past the living room and found that it was coming from a speaker, just barely loud enough for him to have heard in his bedroom. Mitch was working out, oblivious to the momentary terror his playlist had wrought on his unsuspecting brother. 

_ Guess I’m not  _ totally  _ crazy yet.  _ It was a small relief. 

Mitch noticed him lurking around the corner and sat up from where he was bench pressing more weight than Stiles would ever imagine attempting, and tilted his head at him curiously.  

“Hey,” he said, a little out of breath. “Music didn’t wake you did it?”

“No,” Stiles said, because it was technically the truth. The music wasn’t loud enough to have woken him; or rather, wouldn’t have been if he was a normal person who’s psyche didn’t twist every little thing into a new nightmare. 

“Are you okay? You look kinda pale.” 

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for interrupting.” 

“You didn’t. I’m done anyway.”

“Right…. I’m just gonna…” Stiles jerked his thumb over his shoulder and tried for a shaky smile that only got a scowl in return, before melting back into the early morning shadows. The sun was barely up, it had to be somewhere around 6am. Looked like some of his suspicions about Mitch were confirmed, at least: his brother was a freakishly early riser. 

A while later, after Stiles retreated to the guest room and Mitch got showered and changed, Mitch came knocking. “Do you want to do anything today?” he asked. 

“Not really. I think I’m gonna do some more homework, try to get ahead. Dad wasn’t happy that I got so behind, yesterday.” 

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will, thanks.” 

Stiles waited for Mitch to leave before opening up his email to see that Danny had responded. 

_ From: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: wtf man we don’t talk like that _

_ That’s super illegal, you know. Why should I help you? _

_ To: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: yes you do don’t deny it _

_ Help a brother out, man! It’s important. There’s this super shady guy and I want to make sure he’s not up to anything nefarious when he goes sneaking off to places.  _

_ From: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: do you want me to help you or not? _

_ Fine, but it’s gonna cost you.  _

_ To: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: I’m sorry Neo, no disrespect  _

_ Dude, I’m  _ broke.  _ Can’t I give you like an IOU or something? Or write a paper for you? I’ll do coach’s econ homework! My brother is like, a total econ nerd, he helped me with my stuff yesterday and we got through it all in like an hour. _

_ From: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: sure. Are you okay over there? _

_ I want $150 and I’m not doing anything until I have payment upfront.  _

_ To: dmahelani@bhhs.edu  _

_ Subject: five by five, NYC is nice, no school even nicer  _

_ You’re really gonna con me like that? After all I’ve done for you?? Where’s the shame, man. I’ll do $100. _

_ From: dmahelani@bhhs.edu _

_ Subject: i’ll bet _

_ You’ve done nothing for me ever. Fine, $100. Paypal me and I’ll work on it later.  _

Stiles set his laptop aside and pondered how he was actually going to pay Danny, considering he wasn’t lying about the whole being broke thing. He didn’t even have his own credit card, since his dad didn’t trust him not to misuse one before. Ultimately, that was probably a wise choice. Stiles thought back to Sophomore year and his attempts at wooing Lydia, and shuddered. 

Cheeks already burning at what he was about to ask for, he went to seek out Mitch. 

***

Stiles found his brother in the office, when both the bedroom—Stiles only barely resisted the temptation to search it—and living room proved to be a bust. From this angle he couldn’t really see what Mitch was doing on his desktop, and he had to push aside his urge to snoop around; invasion of privacy was not cool. Especially when the person who’s privacy he wanted to invade was still in the room. 

“H-hey….”

“Hey. What do you need?” Mitch asked, turning to face Stiles more fully. 

“Uh… can I borrow your credit card?” 

“What for?”

“There’s uh, this thing I wanna get, but I don’t have my own card or anything, and it’s online so I kind of need one. It’s nothing bad! And I promise I’ll pay you back, but like, later…? Or since I don’t actually have money, I’ll do, like,  _ all  _ the chores. For a week.”

Mitch watched Stiles with that amused half-smile of his—god, he probably thought Stiles was trying to buy  _ porn _ —waiting for the kid to shut up so he could say, “Sure. I think I left my wallet on the bar, you can take the blue card.”

“Thank you.” Well and truly blushing now, Stiles booked it out of the office and to the kitchen, where sure enough, Mitch’s wallet was lying next to his keys. Stiles found the aforementioned card and retreated to the guest room.

It was only after Stiles was walking away that he realized Mitch never asked him how much money he intended to spend. That was weird, right? It seemed like the kind of thing he would want to know before Stiles went off and tried to buy… he didn’t even known, a yacht or something else impractical like that.

“I wonder if Mitch is the kind of rich guy that owns a yacht?” Stiles asked out loud while he created a PayPal and entered his brother’s card information. He felt a little bit guilty, but also Mitch already tried to give him $40, so Stiles was  _ really  _ only spending $60, which wasn’t  _ that  _ much in the long run. It was like, what. A tank of gas? How much did premium even cost nowadays? There’s no way Mitch was putting anything less than top quality fuel in his gorgeous car, only a monster would mistreat such a lovely lady that way. 

Stiles sent the money to Danny and went to put Mitch’s card back. By the time he returned, Danny had already emailed him a program, and instructions on how to use it. All he had to do was find a way to get it onto Mitch’s phone without his brother noticing, and he would be golden. Wherever Mitch went, Stiles would know. 

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. 

***

Maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult as Stiles initially thought. What was the best way to get someone away from their phone? To just ask. 

But Stiles had no inconspicuous reason to borrow Mitch’s phone in the apartment, which means he would need to get Mitch  _ out  _ of the apartment. Then he would claim his own was dead and ask to borrow Mitch’s to make a phone call, which would also serve the purpose of giving the program time to download. But, to avoid the possibility of Mitch producing a charger for him—Stiles had no doubt his brother would, Mitch seemed like a fixer, which was both nice and inconvenient— he would have to be outside of the car. Which meant Stiles would have to socialize. Exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. 

“It’s for the greater good, Stiles, you can do this. Just a few people, a little bit of suffering, and then it’ll be over. We’ve got this.” 

***

It still took Stiles almost two hours to ante up. When he finally did, he went to once again find Mitch in his office, and this time he was  _ sure  _ the tab he had open was a cover for something else. He must have switched when he heard Stiles coming. There was no way the dude was seriously scrolling through stock charts on his time off like they were the winning lotto numbers. Not that he even needed to win the lottery for that matter.  _ Not the point _ . 

“I changed my mind,” he announced, ripping the band aid off. While he knew Mitch would probably let him take it back, this way he was less likely to. 

“Okay…?”

“I want to go see the Empire State Building,” Sties explained in an attempt to add some legitimacy to his sudden change of heart. Mitch couldn’t be suspicious if he had a clear objective, right? And besides, what else do people do when they visit New York?

“Really.”

“Yes.” 

“We can if you want to, but if you’re in a touristy mood, there’s better things to see.” Stiles eagerly latched onto that like the lifeline it was. Let Mitch control where they went and then he would feel more relaxed and in control, and therefore not suspicious of Stiles’ ulterior motives. 

“Great! I’ll go get my coat.” 

“What has gotten into you?” Mitch didn’t look quite suspicious. More surprised that Stiles was willingly and enthusiastically trying to get out of the apartment. Not that Stiles could blame him, since inside he was dreading everything that was sure to happen once he stepped foot outside. 

“I mean… I’ve been here over a week, and I haven’t even done anything really touristy. I figure you’re right, I can’t stay inside all the time. May as well go see some sights.”

***

After Stiles pestered—because at this point he  _ was  _ curious—Mitch took him to the Empire State Building. It was even bigger in person than Stiles imagined. Not that he spent a lot of time imagining how big it was in comparison to his insignificant self, but still. 

“Do you want to go up to the observatory?” Mitch asked. 

“Nah... “ Not with the crush of people that were sure to be up there, tourists in awe over the view it offered of New York. Not all that different from a picture on a screen, since they were still so far away. Stiles could get all the same enjoyment from the comfort of his bed. “How long does it even take to get all the way up there, though? It has to be forever!”

“I have no idea, I’ve never been.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, not really my thing. I mean, it’s just a building.”

“ _ Gasp.  _ It’s not  _ just a building.  _ I’m sure it’s significant in some way other than being really tall.” Mitch snorted. Stiles fell into step with him, following in Mitch’s wake. One thing he would never get used to was how New Yorker’s shoved past each other all day, uncaring as they brushed shoulders with strangers. Stiles couldn’t take it. Luckily Mitch had the Winter Soldier murder walk down, and people parted for him like the Red Sea.

“Not really. It was the world’s tallest building for I think forty years? And it was built in the thirties.”

“Woah.” Stiles looked back over his shoulder, looking at it in a whole different light. It seemed like something so grand shouldn’t have been able to be made so long ago. Yet here it was, still standing, proud as ever. Stiles looked back at his brother, moving to walk beside him. He could feel every inch between them, and leaned in to close the space. Hopefully Mitch wouldn’t think anything of it, Stiles pressing into him on the crowded sidewalk, trying to put more distance between him and the strangers passing by. “Can we go see the Statue of Liberty?” he asked. 

“Sure.” 

“You have to do it by ferry, right? Like you can’t go see it from land?”

“Yeah, they have ferry tours, and a gift shop on the island and everything. If you want to be really touristy, that’s the place to go.”

“You hate tourists, don’t you?” Stiles couldn’t help teasing. Mitch managed to put so much  _ derision  _ on the word, it was effortless. 

“Everyone hates tourists, they’re annoying.” 

“Please, I’m sure you’ve been an annoying tourist when you travel.”

Mitch grinned at him. “Never.” 

“Speaking of traveling, do you speak a lot of languages? I noticed the books in your apartment. Like a quarter of them weren’t even in English.” 

“Six. Some better than others, but my French is perfect. Polish is rusty because I haven’t had anyone to practice with in years.” 

“Me neither,” Stiles said somberly. “I started teaching myself when I was thirteen I think? Maybe fourteen? But the Rosetta Stone I pirated sucked.” 

“Why didn’t you just buy a book or something?”

“Dude, I was hella broke. Still am, to be honest. But now the pirating’s a habit. Why, you’re not a narc, are you?”

“Definitely not,” Mitch agreed with a secretive smile. Stiles didn’t trust it for a minute; he was certain Mitch got himself out of all kinds of trouble with his good looks and charm, but Stiles wouldn’t be fooled. 

“What other languages do you know?”

“I’m pretty passable with German and some Russian.” 

“Ahh, so you have an affinity for the harsh languages, then,” Stiles said sagely. 

“I guess you could say that.” 

“So like, does that mean you’re a mafia hitman?” Stiles kept his tone light, hoping against hope to trip Mitch up without revealing his own cards. He didn’t want Mitch knowing he was actually on to him. “Because you know, those are totally mafia languages.”

“I speak Italian, too,” Mitch said. “Gotta throw the cops off, can’t let them know which family I’m working for.” He said it so seriously that Stiles would have believed him, if not for his smile. Mitch knocked their shoulders together and Stiles huffed a half-hearted laugh. 

“Totally.” No luck there, then, Mitch didn’t even bat an eye at the half-hearted accusation. Maybe he  _ wasn’t  _ a hitman after all. But even if that was the case, he was still shady as hell. Stiles refused to close the case until he got to the bottom of it. 

***

“Why do you keep checking your phone?”

_ Finally.  _ Stiles has been compulsively checking since they left the apartment and making dissatisfied noises every time he did, waiting for Mitch to ask why. Laying the groundwork for his plan and his brother didn’t even know. Should he feel guilty for his clearly manipulative streak? Probably. It seemed like the kind of thing Peter would praise, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

“I’m waiting on an email,” Stiles lied. “It’s this school thing. There was kind of an issue with my enrollment I guess, some paperwork or whatever got messed up, and I’m locked out of all my classes because it keeps saying I’m not a student? Even though clearly I am, and have been for like a month. The IT people are trying to sort it out on their end, and then I have some stuff I have to do too, apparently. And if it doesn’t get done soon I’ll get reported for chronic truancy since I’m a minor, which will mean legal trouble with my dad, and after this one time I accidentally got him fired I’m really trying to avoid putting that stress on him again.” 

Stiles paused to take a deep breath, and found Mitch staring at him like he had two heads. Stiles’ rambling tended to have that effect on people. It also tended to keep people from asking too many questions because they didn’t know where to begin unpacking, and oftentimes didn’t want to subject themselves to another rambling answer. Since Mitch had the—suspicious—patience of a saint, though, Stiles wasn’t sure if that tactic would work on him. 

“That sounds like a clusterfuck.” 

Stiles laughed, reigning in his hysterics with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah, it really is. Online school is convenient, but also a nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never done it.”

Seeing an opportunity to pry, Stiles asked, “Where did you go to school?”

“A private school in Manhattan for freshman year and most of sophomore. Then after mom and my dad, I transferred to a boarding school outside the city.” 

“Woah, you’re  _ that  _ kind of snobby rich kid.” Mitch rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it. “Umm… not to pry or anything, but who was your legal guardian, after…?”

“My dad’s lawyer. In case anything ever happened to him, he had a living will to take care of his affairs, which meant his lawyer got me and control of his estate until I turned 18.” 

“What was that like?”

“I dunno. He was a good person, i guess, him and his wife. I never felt very comfortable around them though, which is why I switched schools. They tried to be welcoming but it just never felt right. They weren’t my family.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“It is what it is.”

“Seems like a lot of things are what they are, with you.”

“Well, what’s the alternative? To hate the world and everything in it?” 

“Maybe.” 

Stiles certainly did. The world was a horrible, filthy, unjust place, where good people like his mom and Allison and Erica and Boyd were killed young, and bad people like him got to keep on living. Why shouldn’t he hate the world?

***

A lot of people talked up the Statue of Liberty, but it was actually gorgeous. Seeing her in person, like the Empire State Building, was nothing like he thought it would be, even from a distance. She stood proud and regal, a guardian holding up her guiding light to welcome weary travelers into the harbor. Seeing her live was almost worth the press of people around them. 

“I think this was a mistake,” Stiles said under his breath. Between all the people and the choppy waters, he felt like he was going to puke. 

“Do you seriously get seasick?” Mitch asked incredulously. “You’re from  _ California. _ ” So he should be immune or something, right?

Except, “Yeah,  _ inland. _ ” Oh god, he was going to die. 

Mitch helpfully pulled Stiles outside to the ship’s deck for some fresh air. It was freezing out on the water, turning his nose and cheeks pink almost immediately. At least his hands were warm, Mitch dutifully buying him a pair of gloves while they were out. Not so helpfully, Mitch told him to look at the horizon. 

“Dude, I’m seeing like two horizons right now, which am I supposed to look at?” Because he was actually an asshole, Mitch laughed at him, mocking his suffering. 

“I guess taking you whale-watching is off the table,” he said, and Stiles responded with a miserable whine. He’d always wanted to go whale-watching. “They’ll probably have something you can take at the gift shop.”

“ _Ngggg_.” Stiles leaned over the metal bar, the only thing keeping him within the boat, keeping him from drowning. The cold metal was refreshing, cutting right through his clothes and into is bones like a blade. The saltwater spray was cold enough that it didn’t remind him of blood. 

Behind him Mitch comfortingly rubbed his back, his hands sure and steady even as the waves pitched the boat. After a few minutes, the fresh air helped to settle his stomach. Maybe it wasn’t sea-sickness after all. Just his heart and mind.

Stiles rubbed his gloved hands together and exhaled between them, trying to warm them up some. Even layered as he was, he was still freezing. Always freezing. 

“Do you want to go back inside?” Mitch asked, noticing Stiles’ cold fidgeting. 

“No, I like it out here. It’s nice.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch agreed with a soft smile. “It really is.” 

***

Stiles spent a long time entertaining himself in the giftshop, poking bobble heads and sifting through personalized keychains. He bought a postcard to send to his dad later, and bullied Mitch into getting an overpriced snow globe. It was Christmas-themed, with reindeer standing at the foot of Lady Liberty. It was a stupid knickknack and Stiles was endlessly delighted with it, enough that he didn’t care how much Mitch teased him for it. 

There were indeed options for medicine Stiles could get, but he decided against the Dramamine. As soon as they stepped off the boat and got away from all the people, Stiles felt like he could breathe again, was no longer nauseous. It wasn’t the water that was making him sick. 

On the return trip Stiles stayed outside with Mitch again, while everyone else flocked to the cabin to get away from the cold. It was a refreshing kind of ache. 

***

“Dammit!” 

“What’s wrong?”

“My phone died! Right when I got the stupid email, too….” 

“Do you need to borrow mine?” Mitch offered blindly. Stiles put on a hopeful look, his eyes big and shining like bambi. Perfectly innocent. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble? I know some people get weird about others handling their phone  _ unlocked. _ ”

“Some people need to get better at hiding their porn.” Mitch unlocked his phone and handed it to Stiles, whose blush had nothing to do with the cold this time. 

“Thanks…”  _ Does that mean he  _ does  _ have porn on here _ ? Stiles wondered. He couldn’t bring himself to ask. 

Stiles was thanking all the gods that Mitch wasn’t the kind of control freak that had to look over his shoulder the entire time, or else he would be caught for sure. He was even more grateful when Mitch spotted a café and they headed into the blessed warmth, Mitch breaking off to get them drinks while Stiles found a table. He logged into his email—briefly contemplated rifling through Mitch’s email first but he didn’t have  _ time _ —and found his thread with Danny. He opened it, and the file Danny sent him; seemingly innocuous, and yet so important. 

The file was slow to download. Or rather, Stiles’ perception of time slowed to a crawl, watching that little blue bar tick steadily forward. Meanwhile the people around him sped up like a VHS tape, their unintelligible conversation buzzing past. 

There were three people in front of Mitch when he got in line. Now he was ordering, and the bar was only at 43%. 

He paid, and it was at 46%. 

Got their drinks, 52%. 

Was heading towards the table, 54%. 

Heart rabbiting in his chest, Stiles pulled up the keypad and quickly tapped in his dad’s number, just in time for Mitch to hand him his drink and sit across from him. 

“Crisis averted?” he asked. 

“Not yet, I still have to talk to my dad.” The dial rang five times before his dad answered. 

“Is Stiles okay?” John demanded, because of course there would only be one reason for Mitch to call him. 

“Um, it’s actually me, dad. My phone died, so I borrowed Mitch’s.” 

“Oh. Are you alright? What do you need, son?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just some stuff with school. I, uh, forwarded you an email. Could you take a look at it when you get a chance? It’s some stuff about enrollment that I need you to fill out.” That actually wasn’t a lie. Stiles did send him an email regarding enrollment… specifically, an extension of his current term. He was supposed to go back to Beacon Hills in January, but… Stiles wasn’t ready. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m out on a case right now, but I’ll take a look as soon as I get back to the office.” 

“Okay, let me just check that I sent it…” Stiles went back into his email and saw that it was at 82%, watched it jump up to 86% immediately; the last leg of the journey passing much faster than the beginning. “Is it a dangerous case? The one you’re working right now?”

“No, pretty standard vandalism. Pretty sure it was just some neighborhood kids.”

“Okay, well be safe anyway. And don’t forget to eat some salad once in a while!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Say hi to Melissa for me, too,” Stiles couldn’t resist adding. 

“You watch yourself, kid, or all you’ll be getting for Christmas is coal.” 

“Trust me dad, you do  _ not  _ want to go that route here, or else we’re gonna be talking about stockings and stuffing and nobody wants that.” Across from him Mitch choked on his coffee, and Stiles grinned impishly. Looked like some things did phase his brother after all. 

“Stiles, I swear to god….”

“Bye, dad.”

“By kiddo.”

Stiles ended the call. The file was finished downloading. Stiles logged out of his email, forgot the account for good measure, and handed the phone back to Mitch.

“Who’s Melissa?”

“My best-friend’s mom. Apparently her and dad have been getting up to some hanky panky lately.” 

“I can’t believe you actually talk to your dad like that,” Mitch said, shaking his head incredulously. 

“Oh believe me, I have said and done  _ way  _ worse. You should’ve been there that time he caught me and Scott outside a gay-bar-turned-crime-scene with one of my classmates passed out in the back of my jeep. Or that time me and Scott kidnapped that same classmate with a stolen prisoner transport truck and kept him handcuffed in the back in the woods. Apparently his dad was the district attorney, and he got a restraining order against me. Fun times.” 

“Wow, that makes my high school career look bland.” 

“I don’t believe that for a second!” Now that his mission for the day was achieved, Stiles could take a deep breath and relax. All that was left for him to do now was sit back and wait. 

***

“Sooo… why business?” 

“It’s what my dad wanted. I always hated it growing up, but when I got to college, I figured out I was pretty good at it. Finance made sense to me, one thing lead to another... now here I am, wasting my life away doing stock analysis and reading reports.”

“Living the high life,” Stiles laughed. “What would you have done instead?”

“I dunno. For a while I was dead set on culinary school.”

“Are you  _ serious? _ ”

“Yes! Mostly it was to piss my dad off by picking as useless a career choice as I could, but I actually love to cook.”

“Amazing. Y’know, I can see it. I bet you’d be a very Gordon Ramsay type.” 

“Ouch, I hope I’m not that bad.” 

“You’re not,” Stiles reassured. “How come you hate your dad so much?” 

“‘Cause he was a bastard.” Mitch shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. His tone was relatively blasé, like he didn’t care anymore.  _ It is what it is,  _ Stiles thought in an echo of Mitch’s previous sentiments. “Aside from his list of offences towards me, he cheated on mom. That’s why they got divorced. He was sleeping with his secretary.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I have no idea why they got married in the first place, to be honest. It’s not like he had a lot of redeeming qualities.” 

“There must have been something. Do you remember anything good about him?” 

“Not really, he wasn’t around much. Always at work, or away on business trips.”

“My dad’s a workaholic, too. It wasn’t as bad before he became the Sheriff, though. I think once he became elected, he thought it was his responsibility to hold down the fort all the time.” And then his mom died, and John lost himself at the bottom of a bottle. It was months before he pulled himself out. In that time Stiles learned to take care of himself, as best a six year old could. Melissa was a godsend during that time, doing what she could to look after both Stilinski’s in the aftermath of Claudia’s death, often picking him up to take him to school, packing an extra lunch with Scott in case John didn’t have a chance to make him one; or more often, forgot. 

Then werewolves happened, and that was just too much to put on anyone. If one thing was for certain, Stilinski’s carried guilt and responsibility like nobody else. All those unsolved cases over the years, who knows how many John could have been able to solve if he knew sooner. Could have gotten justice for the victim’s families, or at least closure. 

The Hales especially weighed heavy on John’s conscience. After they burned, John made it a habit to check in with Peter at the hospital every couple of weeks, since nobody else was coming. Took Stiles along with him a few times; maybe that was why Peter recognized him all those years later. 

***

“What’s your vice?” Stiles asked. “Come on, I know you have one, all rich dudes do. Are you a serial killer? Do you secretly collect porcelain dolls? Pathologically buy stock in failing companies to bet against them and make millions while watching the global economy fail?” 

“What the fuck...?” Stiles snorted at the puzzled, slightly concerned look Mitch gave him. To be fair, that last one was suspiciously specific. 

“Coach made us watch Too Big To Fail a few months ago.” 

“Your lacrosse coach?”

“Yeah, he was also our econ teacher. Dude was insane. It made for a very interesting and confusing class, but the movie was really good.” 

“I liked it,” Mitch agreed. “I’ve met Hank Paulson, he’s not as likeable in person as the guy who plays him.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, he was doing some conference at my university that I decided to go to.” 

“Oh, wow.” That was kind of cool. The only public official Stiles has met was the mayor during his dad’s last campaign for Sheriff. “ Anyway, don’t deflect! What’s your guilty pleasure?” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Everybody has one!”

“What’s yours?”

“Chronic Adderall abuse, and I sell papers online. Your turn.” 

“Bullshit, you haven’t even touched your Adderall since you got here,” Mitch said, rolling his eyes. “I believe you about the papers, though.”

“Ouch. Should I be offended?” He shook his head; Mitch was distracting him again. “Stop evading.” 

“I don’t know. All I really do is work. I’m not big into gambling, or anything. Even though plenty of people would consider my work exactly that.” Stiles wasn’t satisfied with that answer, and Mitch could see it. He sighed heavily, before admitting, “I like French drama’s, I guess.”

“...  _ What? _ ”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Yeah, but like….  _ French dramas?  _ Is that like soap operas?” 

“Sure, you could think of it like that.” It looked liked it pained Mitch to say those words, his expression twisted up into a grimace. 

“What’s your favorite?” 

“An adaptation of  _ Les Liaisons Dangereuses _ .” 

Stiles ignored the way Mitch’s lilting tone gave him butterflies—and how it reminded him of Allison, the spark of arousal he felt followed by a pang of hurt—and asked, “That’s  _ Dangerous Liaisons,  _ right?”

***

Stiles called his dad before turning in for the night, something about Mitch and his mom still weighing heavily on his mind. “Hey dad, do you know why mom married Mitch’s dad?” Stiles asked. His dad had to know; he and Claudia had been best friends in high school, and carried that into their adult lives. 

“She thought he was fun, I suppose,” John answered. “In the beginning, he was always taking her off places; it always sounded like an extended honeymoon, the way she talked about him.” 

“Mitch kind of hates him.” 

“Yeah, I suppose he would. Feeling was mutual, from what I could tell. I remember Claudia used to talk to him a lot about his father; he always wanted to come and live with us. I was always happy to do that, but Claudia never wanted to.”

“Do you know why?” 

“No.” John sighed heavily. “It never made any sense to me, but she was adamant that Mitch never come here, not even to visit. She flew out to New York a few times, but never let Mitch come back with her.”

The more Stiles learned about Mitch’s side of the family, the more confused he became.  _ Why  _ would Claudia have ever banned him from coming to see her? And how could Mitch claim not to hate her, even after she did that to him? In his place, Stiles wouldn’t have been able to stand it, feeling unwanted by both of his parents. 

“Alright… well, thanks dad. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, kiddo. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

***

Mitch knew he wasn’t supposed to be out of bed this late, but his parents’ voices woke him. He didn’t like it when they argued. They did that a lot lately, but it felt different this time; his mom sounded so angry. Unable to leave them alone, Mitch quietly crept down the hall in the hopes of finding out what was going on. 

“You can’t just  _ run away. _ ”

“I can’t stay here.”

“What about Mitch, are you just going to leave him behind?” 

“Yes, Robert, you’ll have to learn how to be a father while I’m not here to raise him for you.” 

“Mommy?” Mitch peered around the doorway. Claudia was standing beside her bed, a frantically packed suitcase lying open on the bed. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. Robert stood on the other side of the bed looking angry. Mitch knew he shouldn’t—he wasn’t allowed inside, dad said—but he ran to his mother’s side. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, baby.” Claudia was quick to wipe away her tears and hold Mitch to her; he didn’t even come up to her shoulder yet, so young. Too young to understand what was happening, but old enough to understand it wasn’t good. “I’m okay, but I have to leave for a little while.” 

“Where are you going? Can I come with?” Mitch pleaded, clutching the back of her shirt. The way she looked at him made his eyes well with tears; he knew what she was going to say as soon as she grimaced. “Don’t leave me!” 

“I-I need to go alone, baby. I’m so sorry, but your dad will take care of you here, okay?”

“No, I want to go with you!” His dad was never around, and when he was he never wanted anything to do with Mitch. Always told Mitch to leave him alone to work, to go find his mother. 

“You can’t, Mitch.” Claudia bent down to kiss the top of his head, then pried him off of her. Claudia zipped up her suitcase and dragged it off the bed. 

“You’re making a mistake, Claudia,” Robert warned. She shook her head in denial. 

“This is on you, Robert..” Claudia turned her back on her husband and faced Mitch with a false smile. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes but didn’t fall. “Be good for your dad, okay?” 

“Please don’t go,” he begged, his voice cracking. 

Robert came around the bed to hold Mitch back from following after Claudia, easily overpowering his desperate struggles. Claudia looked back at him one last time before walking out the door. Her wedding ring was left on her nightstand. 

“Mommy!” 

Robert waited until he heard the front door close behind Claudia before speaking. “Stop crying.” He gave Mitch a shake when the boy refused. “She’ll come back in a few weeks. Now off to bed, you have school in the morning.” Robert carted Mitch off to his room and shut him inside. Mitch burrowed underneath the covers and sobbed into his pillow, clutching it to him. The comfort it offered was minimal at best. He knew his mom wouldn’t be coming home again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys want some sad meta about Mitch on this chapter, check out my blog, because I was having Feelings while finishing up the last scene. 
> 
> Please leave some comments telling me what you guys think! This was a fun chapter to write, and I hope you enjoy it <3


	8. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles violently shook his head to rid himself of the thought; his mom would never have used him to replace Mitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm going to take out this 500 word scene  
> my doc: goes from 5.5k to 5k  
> Me: cool now I just need to edit and post  
> my doc: is 6.9k  
> me: this isn't how math works. 
> 
> In the process of editing, I apparently added almost 2k. So that's cool I guess?? My chapters are getting progressively longer rip ;_; but this was a fun one despite how utterly FRUSTRATING it's been all month, so I hope you enjoy

Stiles drummed his fingers against his thigh and thought that he was actually insane.

“Am I really going to do this?” He asked himself out loud. Mitch was still out of the apartment, presumably at work. That at least didn’t appear to be a lie; Stiles checked the place out, where Mitch spent a few hours each day; just like Mitch told him it was some kind of Wall Street. Orion Investments.

 _Probably just a cover._ It was actually perfect. Any payments Mitch got from fulfilling hit contracts could be compiled together and passed off as an end of year bonus as far as his taxes were concerned, and the IRS would be none the wiser. Coach made them all watch Too Big To Fail in econ, he knew how Wall Street worked. 

That brought Stiles back to his original question, standing in the middle of his room like a fool about to go make what was probably a very big mistake. If he actually, truly believed Mitch was a hitman, and he was actually going to try and catch him out on it, how would that end for him? 

Stiles didn’t believe for a second that Mitch would hurt him, not really. After spending over two weeks with the guy, he didn’t even really believe Mitch _was_ a hitman anymore. But there was definitely something strange going on, and those bruises had to come from somewhere. His torso was _mottled_ with them. That wasn’t the kind of bruising that came from an accident, like running into a door or falling down a set of stairs. Stiles has gotten hurt enough times to know the difference between an unfortunate mishap and a deliberate injury. 

Stiles just… he needed to know what was going on. He _hoped_ it was nothing. Or that maybe it was something good, like Mitch was secretly Batman, out fighting crime at night. Stiles didn’t want to find out something that would make him look at Mitch differently, because he _liked_ him. Despite everything Mitch felt safe, and Stiles hasn’t had that in a long time. 

Maybe that was why his anxiety was so intent on making him prove there was something going on. He could never leave well enough alone, always had to pick and dig until he found the meat of the matter. But now, after everything he’d been through, it’s gotten so much worse. 

The Nogitsune took a lot of things away from him; his friends, his home, his sanity. Perhaps the worst was his ability to trust. Before, Stiles was always wary of strangers. A consequence of growing up the son of a cop, seeing the kinds of things people did to each other. But before the Nogitsune burrowed its way inside of him and twisted everything he thought he knew about the world, he would never believe with such conviction that Mitch was anything other than what he seemed. Not when Mitch, as intimidating as he was, never _scared_ him. Not like Stiles scared himself.

Part of him felt like he was betraying Mitch; bugging his phone—practically stalking him—all while looking for something to use against him. It wasn’t right. Mitch was nothing but good to him. He opened his home to Stiles when he had no reason to do so, took care of him even though it wasn’t his responsibility. 

“If I don’t find anything, then I’m going to drop this. No more suspicion, no more slinking around behind his back. If there’s nothing there, then I’m _done._ ” Stiles swore to himself that this was it, the last time he would give in to his baseless paranoia. For the first time he was finally calling it what it was. He would finally fucking drop it, and if he couldn’t, then he would find help. Mitch deserved better than suspicion, manipulation, and lies. 

***

Apprehension crawled down Stiles’ throat and constricted his lungs as he crept into the hall. Mitch was gone—would be away at work for hours—but he couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder. The specter of his brother’s presence loomed in the shadows, telling him to turn back, that he wouldn’t like what he found. Stiles wanted to, _desperately,_ but felt just as strong a compulsion to continue onwards. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and pushed open the door.  

The bedroom itself was nothing remarkable. It was decorated in dark tones like the guest room, one wall offering a beautiful view of the city skyline. The bed was rumpled and unmade, a shirt hanging over the edge of the hamper in the corner. There was a lamp and book on the nightstand beside an alarm clock. At first glance, it was underwhelmingly normal. 

Stiles went to the nightstand first. The most incriminating thing he could hope to find would be a firearm in the drawer, or a diary detailing Mitch’s kills. _Am I really willing to read through his diary?_ Stiles wasn’t forced to find out, because he found neither of those things. Just average odds and ends. A bottle of over the counter painkillers rattled to the back when he opened the drawer, landing against condoms and a bottle of astroglide. Blushing, Stiles pushed them aside and felt around for a false bottom, or maybe a bag of drugs taped to the top. A box of fake identities. There was nothing. 

Stiles dropped to his knees and peered under the bed, but there was no gap between the frame and the floor, so that was a bust. 

“Okaaay, into the closet we go.” Stiles levered himself up and slid open the closet door, surprised at the crisp suits neatly lined up on one side. “Huh.” _Wonder what he looks like in one of these._

Stiles expected to find a safe hidden in the closet, but there was surprisingly nothing. Even his dad had one back home, it was where he kept all of his important documents. Birth certificates, social security cards, the deed to the house. And Stiles knew for a fact there were some of his old drawings in there as well; one saved from every year of elementary school. 

 _Everyone_ had a safe somewhere in the house, because everyone had something to protect— _or hide._ Stiles refused to believe Mitch had nothing precious or incriminating; the safe had to be kept somewhere else. Unfortunately there were no pictures hanging on the walls to conceal a safe, and all the sockets seemed to be real, so he didn’t have any of those cheap infomercial hideaways. 

Something at the top of the closet caught his attention. A dusty shoebox on the top shelf, stuffed carelessly into the corner. A few ancient cobwebs clung to it, binding it to the wall. Curious, Stiles pushed onto his toes to pull down the box. It was almost out of reach, and he shoved it right onto the floor trying to flick it closer to the edge. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

The contents of the box spilled everywhere. Stiles dropped to his knees to frantically pick everything up, grimacing as he scooped the pile of papers and trinkets together into a more contained pile. _What if he finds out!?_

The box was dusty and old, latticed with cobwebs—Mitch didn’t get into it often. Stiles could only hope his brother wouldn’t remember what configuration everything had been in the last time he opened it, or else Stiles would be done for. There was no one else for Mitch to suspect. 

Just as Stiles was about to dump everything into the box and make a run for it, he registered the strange sticking texture of the papers. They landed facedown, but they were undoubtedly photographs. Stiles gathered up the stack, careful to touch only the edges, and turned them over. 

The first was a portrait of Claudia and Mitch. He was dressed in a dark blue lacrosse uniform, looking awkward underneath all the padding, but smiling brighter than the sun. He held his crosse in one and showed off a bronze trophy with the other. He could’ve only been eight, maybe nine when the photo was taken. 

 _Guess it runs in the family._ Or maybe Claudia just had a special love of the sport. _Maybe she was trying to make you in his image._ Stiles violently shook his head to rid himself of the thought; his mom would never have used him to replace Mitch. 

Stiles kept sifting through the photographs, treating them more gently now that he knew what they were. They were pristine, untouched by age and unmarred by fingerprints. Faded, but well cared for. Or ignored. 

Amongst the photos there were even a few with Mitch’s father, these ones unmutilated, unlike the first Stiles found of the man. Stiles picked one up and drew it closer to get a better look; Mitch’s dad was a handsome man, and Stiles could see the resemblance. Mitch had Claudia’s black hair and brown eyes, but his features took more after his father. _Handsome._  

Stiles crossed his legs and settled in. He may as well get comfortable since he had the time, and he doubted Mitch would give him another chance of his own volition. Not when the box was so intentionally kept out of the way that spiders had the opportunity to make a shelter out of it. 

After Claudia died, John couldn’t bear to look at pictures of her, or anything else that served as a reminder. Everything that belonged to her was packed away and stored in the attic, the memories too painful when the grief was so fresh. It was only when Stiles begged, fearing he would forget what she looked like, that the framed photographs found their way back to the walls and mantle.

This was the first time Stiles was getting a look into Claudia’s past life, seeing her before she married his dad. She looked so young and carefree, her arms wrapped around her husband and son with a bright smile in many of the pictures. The wedding photo was stunning, Claudia dressed in a gorgeous white gown, Mitch’s dad giving the camera an uncharacteristic smile. 

It wasn’t just photographs in the box. After stacking them neatly and putting them back, Stiles found a velvet sachet containing a silver heart necklace and a wedding ring, a white-gold band inlaid with diamonds and sapphires. The necklace was elegantly engraved with Claudia’s initials, and opened to show two small pictures; one of Robert and one of Mitch. The sachet was placed back in the box, and Stiles picked up another photograph. This one was a grainy blue and white that at first he couldn’t identify. The date on the back is what made him realize; it was an ultrasound.  Unlike the photographs with their crisp edges, this one was worn from handling. Stiles could imagine his mother taking it out and looking at it, the first picture of her first son. Probably impatient for him to be born so she could finally hold him. Stiles placed it back in the box with care. 

There were other odds and ends—a purple glitter pen with a pompom on the back, a yellow scrunchie, a keychain—and Stiles had the sinking realization that many of them weren’t chosen for any specific purpose or attachment. They were just what remained of Claudia when she left, gathered up by a heartbroken child wanting to keep some part of her with him. 

It was no wonder Mitch kept them in a box out of sight and out of reach. Rather than happy memories, everything it represented was loss and abandonment. 

Feeling guilty now for prying, Stiles hastily put everything back in the box. Before he closed it, another velvet bag caught his eye, this one slightly bigger than the first. It was heavy when Stiles picked it up, and felt inexplicably warm to the touch. It wasn’t a conscious decision to open the bag and pour its contents into his hand. 

Carved ivory stones fell into his palm with a rattle. 

“What the hell….”

They were runestones, used for divination. 

Stiles closed his hand around them, then cast them onto the floor. 

***

“Is magic real, mommy?” Stiles asked, just like he’d been asking all week. He was young and in love with the concept, the endless possibilities that would come from living in a world like _Harry Potter._ Claudia laughed and picked Stiles up to twirl him around, making him giggle in delight. 

“Of course it is, if you believe in it hard enough. Do you really, _really_ believe in magic?” Claudia asked with an indulgent smile. 

“I do!” 

“Then anything is possible.” Claudia put Stiles back on his feet and he went chasing after a column of leaves spinning past. Fall was his favorite, especially when the leaves were turning and he could smell the magic in the air. 

_I believe._

***

Claudia always taught Stiles to believe in magic, taught him that it was everywhere, in everything. When he got older he figured that was just her being a mom, wanting him to see the brightest parts of life. Stiles hardly stopped to think about it when werewolves became a thing, because while magic was real, it wasn’t at all like what she said it was. 

Magic was used to hurt and trap, to kill his friends and wreak havoc on his town. Magic wasn’t pure and beautiful the way his mom always said it was. Magic was drowning in a bath of ice. Magic was watching someone try to sacrifice his father. Magic was demons turning oni into slaves, and watching them kill a dear friend. 

Stiles didn’t want to believe in magic, not now that he knew it was real. 

Stiles gathered up the runes and stuffed them back in their bag. He tossed them in the box and closed it, got up to put it back in the closet, out of reach where it belonged. After making sure everything was as he left it, Stiles left the room without another glance. There was nothing for him to find. 

***

After puttering around the apartment for a few more hours, halfheartedly working on his homework, Stiles decided what he needed was some fresh air. The postcard he bought for his dad was lying on the nightstand, still going unsent several days later. 

“I think I can handle mailing a postcard by myself.” Stiles had bigger problems than the Nogitsune if he couldn’t even manage that much. 

He got up and dressed quickly, pulling on his shoes, coat, and the new gloves Mitch bought him. They were soft and warm inside, shielding him against the cold when he made his way onto the street. 

Stiles lingered too long in front of the building, just outside the entrance. It was 4pm and the sun would set in about an hour or so. He could probably make it back before dark, and he would definitely be back before Mitch got home at 6. Maybe he’d buy some snacks on the way, too. 

***

New York was an easy place to navigate in theory. The grid system made everything very simple and clear, easy to find. 

In _theory_. 

In practice, Stiles was lost and overwhelmed by the crush of people around him. Strangers collided with his thin body, shoving him into more people, yelling at him to get out of the way without so much as breaking their stride. Stiles slipped and fell, and the sea of people closed around him. He was drowning, unable to see a way out. He brought his hands up to shield his face.

_“You’re a monster!”_

_“He’s trying to kill me, John!”_

A car going past swerved out of the way of a cyclist and sent a sheet of ice water crashing over Stiles, soaking him through. It was filthy, staining his clothes and burning his eyes. Stiles crawled to the other side of the sidewalk on all fours, stumbling to his feet when he found enough space to lurch up. He sought refuge against a storefront. Shaking hands pulled his phone out of his pocket, only to realize he didn’t have it. Somewhere in the fray it had been lost. 

“No. No, no, no, _oh god._ ” Stiles dropped to his knees and frantically searched the filthy ground, uncaring of the dozens of people rushing by, knocking into him, stepping on his hands. His phone was nowhere to be found, swallowed up by the city. 

Stiles felt his heart jump into his throat and seize a second before the tears came. What was he going to do now? _I can’t afford to replace it. I can’t get back. I don’t know where I am._

_“Scott, you have to come find me. You can do it, I know you can.”_

There was no Scott to save him this time, because Stiles didn’t have a phone to _call._

Stiles stumbled into the nearest alley and puked behind a dumpster, bile stinging his throat and tears running down his cheeks. Without his phone he had no GPS, no way to get back to his apartment, no way to call for help. Mitch wouldn’t know where he was when he came home from work, would get no answer if he tried to call, and who knows what he would think then. Stiles didn’t even know where to find the police department, or a hospital. Outside the alley lights flashed by with blaring sirens, but he would never be fast enough to follow. 

“I don’t know what to _do_ ,” he keened, sliding down the wall and putting his hands in his hair; it was futile to fight against the rising panic. Only Mitch had ever been able to make it stop. 

***

Stiles didn’t know how long he sat in that filthy alley, gasping in putrid air and choking on it. For a while he blacked out, and when he came to again his head was pounding with a migraine. He was still in the alley; no one had come to rescue him, to bring him somewhere warm and safe. There was no one to come for him, a city of millions and he was utterly alone, he’d made sure of it. 

Panic isn’t what flared up this time. Instead it was suffocating despair at the realization that he was utterly alone, thousands of miles away from his home, his family. Trading them all in for a stranger was the worst decision he could have made. 

Stiles bent his knees and leaned forward to put his head between them. _You’re okay, Stiles, you’re fine, just keep breathing. One after another. You’re going to be okay._ It was his thought but it came in Mitch’s voice, a hollow echo of his brother. Even without him here it helped somewhat, and Stiles’ wracking gasps slowly subsided, leaving behind a bitter ache in his lungs. 

Once he felt like he could breathe again Stiles sat straight once more. His clothes and hair were still damp from the gutter water, making his skin itch and chafe. He needed to get back to the apartment, into a shower and a change of clothes. Sitting around waiting for someone to save him wasn’t going to get him anywhere. 

He scrubbed his face and sniffled pitifully, thinking of his mom. Wishing she were still alive to pick him up and kiss away the hurt, tell him that anything was possible if he only believed. _I want to believe I can be okay again, mom, but I can’t._ Stiles didn’t know how to be okay anymore; hadn’t been, since she died. 

Stiles needed to do _something._ Break the task up into small, manageable parts, so that he wouldn’t crumble under the stress. Stiles didn’t know how to get back to the apartment, but he knew how to get out of the alley, and that was a start. Reluctantly, he dragged himself to his feet. 

Outside the alley the sidewalk was still full of people. Stiles wanted nothing less than to join them, but what other choice did he have? Sit in the alley and rot, let himself be taken away with the trash? 

_It’s what you deserve._

Carrying himself on shaking legs, Stiles forced himself out of the alley. He didn’t know which direction to go, couldn’t remember which way he came from. Trying to avoid as much contact as he could he pulled up his hood and stuffed his hands in his pockets, folded in on himself. Stiles picked a direction and started walking. 

***

Stiles was surprised to find an actual, functional payphone. He had some change left over from the candy he bought earlier, and eagerly fed it into the machine. He called the only number he could think of, dialing with shaking hands. After three rings, a woman with a husky voice answered. 

“Alpha… I need help,” he stuttered out.

“Who is this?”

“Stiles Stilinski, from the Hale Pack. Please, Derek—he said you could help me—” Stiles didn’t know what he would do if she refused him, didn’t have enough change to make another call. He should have called Mitch, what was he thinking?

“Stiles, of course,” she soothed. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I lost my phone and I can’t—I don’t know how to get back.”

“Alright, that’s alright. I’ll send someone to find you. Describe where you are.”

“There’s…” Stiles looked around, but it was like he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. There was too much going on, the loud lights and sounds overstimulating. Nothing like the cool, neutral tones of Mitch’s apartment. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Stiles heard her say something away from the phone, barking orders. He couldn’t understand what she said but the tone of authority was unmistakable. When she spoke to him again her voice was kind, gentle. 

“It’s okay. I have people out looking for you Stiles, just stay where you are.”

“Okay….” 

“Where were you when you left, can you tell me that?” Stiles sighed with some small measure of relief; he could do that. He told her Mitch’s address, and told him where he’d been heading when she asked. 

“Do you know how long you’ve been gone?”

“Maybe—a few hours, I think? It wasn’t dark when I left. I passed out in an alley and just woke up, I don’t know how long it’s been. I think I left at four?” She hummed, and Stiles knew the information wasn’t helpful. She wanted to create a perimeter to narrow down how far he could have gotten, but there was no way to do that without a timeframe. 

The payphone told him he was almost out of time and he whined pitifully, his heart beating faster. 

“Stay where you are, Stiles, do you understand? I have my emissary performing a tracking spell, but you need to stay where you are.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” 

“Sit tight, we’ll be there soon, love.” 

***

Stiles couldn’t stay huddled by the payphone forever. The position was too _vulnerable._ Having his back to so many people made him feel watched. Stiles really didn’t mean to go far. Just far enough to put himself in a defensible position. While looking for a place that would be safe enough, his feet kept carrying him farther and farther away, until he realized he could no longer see the payphone when he looked for it. 

***

Stiles found himself in front of a bookshop, with intricate designs carved into the wooden door and windchimes made out of shells hanging in the window. It was strangely familiar. The place felt inviting, warm. It drew him in. Stiles entered unquestioningly, if only to get away from the cold embrace of too many people. 

Bookshop owners were kind people, maybe this one would help him. 

“Hello?” Stiles called out, hating the way he sounded. Small, afraid. Hated even more that it was exactly how he felt. Gone was his budding confidence and hope for the future; he would never be free from what happened to him—what he _did_.

“Just a minute!” A woman’s voice called back. Stiles shuffled away from the entrance and to a stack of shelves against the right wall, near the register. The books were worn and well used, a sign stating they were three dollars a piece. After a few minutes a frazzled-looking woman with café au lait skin and curly hair bound back with a scarf came out to join him, offering a kind smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I—I need help.” Stiles crumpled, his voice breaking. “I don’t know where I am, and I lost my phone, and I don’t know how to get home.”

“Oh, honey, it’s alright. Come here, have a seat, we’ll get you all figured out.” The woman took him by the arm and led him towards the back of the shop, Stiles gratefully following. Bookcases closed in around them with the comfort of a familiar quilt, heighted by the smell of paper and ink that all bookshops carried. The air was warmed with a hint of spice, thanks to the scented pinecones dotting the bookshelves and hanging from amber Christmas lights. 

At the back of the shop there was a collection of overstuffed chairs, perfect to sink into and lose yourself in a book for hours. The light was warm and gentle, the sound from outside muffled, a welcome reprieve from the chaos. Stiles collapsed into one of the chairs and the woman left him briefly, not even a minute later with a cup of fresh tea. “I just made it,” she said by way of explanation. 

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered, taking off his damp gloves to wrap his hands around the warm mug. It seeped into his bones, thawing away some of chilling ache. He didn’t even realize how bad he was shivering until he saw the distortion in the tea. 

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Stiles. I’m not from here and I’m—I don’t—” Did he even remember Mitch’s number? He could call his dad but it was late, what if he was asleep? Or working and unable to answer the phone? Scott he already knew wouldn’t answer, took hours or days to even respond to one of his texts.

The woman put her hand on his arm to soothe him, and asked, “Stiles, do you know Derek Hale?” 

“Y-yeah?” He looked up at her, full of desperation and hope. She smiled warmly. 

“I’m Marie Deveraux, emissary to the Ackerman Pack,” she said, and Stiles could have cried again. He had to set his tea on the small table beside him before he dropped it from the sheer relief. “We’ve been looking for you, Stiles. My alpha has been worried.”

Stiles watched her take out her phone and send off a text, presumably to her alpha, letting her know Stiles had been found. “Why didn’t you contact us sooner?” she asked, gently chiding. “We’ve been waiting to hear from you.” 

“I’m sorry. I just—I came here to get away from werewolves, and magic, and—and everything else. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright, I understand. You didn’t want to get involved.” Stiles nodded pathetically. “Do you want me to call Derek for you?”

“Yes please.” Hearing a familiar voice while in the midst of such an unfamiliar place would hopefully calm him down. 

Stiles sipped his tea while Marie scrolled through her contacts until she found Derek’s name. She handed over the phone and Stiles listened to it ring, curled around the tea and drawing in its warmth. 

“Marie?” Derek asked. 

“No it’s—it’s me.”

“Are you okay?” Derek asked sharply. Stiles could imagine his ears pricking up like an alert dog. 

“Yeah… no. Not really. I went out by myself today, and I got lost and… I had a panic attack. Somehow I ended up in Marie’s bookshop, I guess, I don’t really know how.” He hadn’t been looking for it, but he felt drawn. Even when his frazzled instincts were screaming at him that nowhere was safe, Marie’s bookshop stood out to him as a light of sanctuary in the night. . 

“Mitch called your dad about an hour ago, asking if you said anything to him. He had no idea where you were when he got home, and said that you’d disappeared. John was getting ready to get on a plane and come find you.” 

“Oh God, please tell me you talked him out of it?” Derek was suspiciously silent. “You were going to go with him, weren’t you?”

“... Maybe. I guess I can cancel those plane tickets, now.” 

Stiles groaned. His pack, seriously. It also warmed him though, how much his dad and Derek cared. He missed them. “I’m sorry for causing problems. I lost my phone. But please don’t tell my dad that, I don’t want to put that kind of stress on him right now.” 

“Do you think you’re going to be okay now?”

“Yeah…” Stiles looked over at Marie. She’d made herself scarce to give him some semblance of privacy, going far enough away that she was reasonably out of earshot, but close enough that she could keep an eye on him. It should feel stifling to be watched like that, monitored, but Stiles was grateful to not be alone. “Once I get back, at least. Thanks, Derek.”

“No problem.” 

“Is my dad with you?”

“Yeah, hang on, I’ll grab him.” Stiles waited while Derek went to find his dad, twisting his mug of tea on the chair’s arm. 

“Stiles? Where are you? Are you safe?” 

“Yeah, dad, I’m okay now. I’m with the Ackerman emissary. Her name’s Marie and she’s really nice.”

“What the hell were you doing? Mitch said when he got home you were just _gone,_ no note, no text, nothing. Said he didn’t know what to think.” Stiles shrank in on himself, his stomach knotting with guilt. 

“I wanted to go out for a walk,” he mumbled. “I thought… I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it, going outside alone. But I couldn’t. I had a really bad panic attack, and I think I passed out in an alley for a few hours?” Tears stung his eyes and Stiles put down his tea to scrub them furiously. He was so _tired_ of this. “I just wanted to be _normal_ for a little while.” He didn’t even manage to mail his dad the postcard. Probably lost it sometime along with his phone.

But apparently even that was too much to ask of the universe, for it to give him one small break. He was finally getting better. Going out with Mitch, seeing the city. Not staying locked up inside all day. But the second he went out without his brother, that tenuous fantasy of normalcy came crashing down around him. 

“Hey, Stiles, it’s okay. Listen to me. Breathe with me, son.” Stiles tried. Trust his dad to catch onto the beginnings of a panic attack before Stiles even consciously realized it was coming on. For over a minute Stiles just tried to match his breathing with his dad’s, clutching the phone until he was light-headed but breathing again. “Better now?”

“Yeah. Thanks, dad.” 

“Now, you need to call Mitch, he’s worried sick about you.”

“I can’t, not yet. I need to find out some stuff first, and I don’t want to get him involved in all the werewolf stuff. He’ll just think I’m insane.” Stiles chewed his bottom lip. “Will you tell him I’m okay? And that I’ll call him soon?” John sighed heavily on the other end of the line. 

“Stiles….”

“Please, dad?”

“Okay, fine. But Stiles? Next time you get a wild hair to pull something like this, for the love of God, _tell someone,_ okay? I think you scared ten years off my life tonight.” Stiles looked down at his feet, wiggled his toes in his worn out converse. They were soaked too, his toes aching in his wet socks. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” 

“Sure you won’t,” John said, but it was fond. “Call me when you get home safe.”

“I will, dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, Stiles. Be safe.” 

His dad hung up and Stiles gave the phone back to Marie, who wandered back over when she heard him say his goodbyes. “Feeling better?” she asked. 

“A little bit, thanks.” There was one thing still bugging him, though. “But I don’t know how I got here. I mean, out of this entire city, of all the places I could end up, I stumble into an emissary's bookshop?”

“Ah, I believe I have an answer for that. The runes carved into the door draw supernaturals. This place is a sanctuary of sorts; those in need will always find themselves drawn here.” 

“But I’m a human,” Stiles said dumbly. 

“Which is admittedly strange,” Marie agreed with a brief puzzled look.  

“What does that mean for me, then? That I’m some kind of supernatural... without knowing it?” 

“If you were, you would definitely know. But I don’t think you need to worry; it’s probably your connection to your pack that drew you here.”

“Maybe….” Stiles wasn’t so sure. The explanation didn’t sit right with him. 

***

Stiles called Mitch to come get him about half an hour later, after he had a chance to finish his tea and talk more with Marie. She revealed the presence of a fireplace, and happily lit it at his request, giving him a chance to dry his socks and shoes in front of it. The serene crackle of the fire was soothing; all that was missing was a fat bookshop cat to weave through the shelves. Stiles kept waiting for one to come padding out. 

Mitch got to the shop in record time. Stiles was curled up small and lightly dozing in his chair while Marie shelved new inventory, when Mitch came in. All of the cold and danger from outside followed him, the light tinkle of the bell startling Stiles. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Mitch demanded when he found Stiles. Marie looked ready to intervene, but Stiles waved her off. He couldn’t stand in the face of Mitch’s anger though, sinking deeper into the chair, trying to disappear. “I don’t care if you leave, but Jesus Christ, at least fucking tell me first!”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said earnestly. He forced himself to lift his gaze and look at Mitch, _really_ look at him, and saw that he was _wrecked._ Beneath the anger he was pale, worryingly so compared to his usual tawny complexion. His hands were clenched to stop them shaking. 

 _I can’t believe I really thought all those awful things about him._ There was no way Mitch could be anything other than a good man, had given Stiles no reason to believe otherwise. And yet all he’d done in the past two weeks was abuse his brother’s trust and kindness. Guilt threatened to choke Stiles, but he pushed it aside, getting to his feet and falling into his brother’s arms, burying his face in his shoulder. “I’m _so sorry_.” Not just for sneaking out, but for lying to him, manipulating him. Everything. 

Mitch was so surprised by the sudden contact that it took him a few seconds to reciprocate. He carefully put his arms around Stiles, hugging him firmly when Stiles only leaned into him harder. “Hey… it’s okay, kid,” Mitch said softly. “You’re okay now, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled. “I think I am. Or I will be. I won’t go off like that again,” he promised. 

“You’re not a prisoner, you can leave. Just tell me first, okay? I had no idea if something happened to you or what.” 

“I know…” Stiles sniffled and reluctantly pulled away. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, put your shoes on and we’ll go.” 

Stiles grabbed his socks from the fireplace and put them back on, now thankfully dry and toasty warm. Marie came over while he was lacing up his shoes to hand him a metal tea tin. “It’s my own special brew,” she said with a conspiratory wink, “it will help calm your nerves.” Forget drinking it, Stiles would probably benefit more from a constant IV drip of the stuff. 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. She pulled him into a hug when he stood. 

“If you need anything, please call.”

“I will. Thank you so much, Marie. And tell your—tell Ms. Ackerman I said think you, too. I don’t know what I would have done….” 

“Anytime, honey.” Marie caressed his cheek and sent him off with Mitch. Stiles slumped into his brother’s side, Mitch’s arm heavy and secure around his shoulders. 

***

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Mitch asked when they got home. Stiles dropped his jacket over the back of the couch and hedged away from Mitch. 

“No. I’m pretty beat, I think I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed.” Panic attacks took a lot out of him, and his brief nap only left him feeling more exhausted. After the evening Stiles had, he felt like he could sleep for a week. 

“Okay, goodnight.” Stiles nodded and padded off towards the guest room. Before he went inside, Mitch stopped him to ask, “Are you gonna be okay?”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Yeah,” he lied. 

***

Stiles woke with a scream stuck in his throat, no sound making it past his lips. It felt like he was choking on bandages, rough filthy fabric scraping his throat raw. He could still taste the burned flesh and antiseptic, the same smell of gruesome death that followed the Nogitsune.

A glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand told him it was nearly 11pm. He hadn't even gotten two hours of sleep before the nightmares woke him. Stiles groaned and rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. Despite his near-constant exhaustion, it was unlikely he would be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

Stiles got out of bed and had to catch himself against it when his knees almost gave out. His shirt was damp with cold sweat so he shucked it off and dropped it on the floor, fished a clean one out of his suitcase. Goosebumps pebbled his skin. Rubbing his arms did little to banish the chills he felt in his soul. 

Stiles made his way out to the kitchen for a glass of water, shying away from his reflection in the big picture window. He knew what he looked like with his pale skin and messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, and he didn’t want to see it. 

What he really wanted was more of that honey milk Mitch made him before, or maybe some of the tea Marie made him, but he didn’t have the energy to make either. The glass was only filled half way when the shaking of his hands made the water slosh towards the edge. Anymore and it would spill over. 

Stiles forced himself to swallow down all the water to wet his parched throat. He drank another half-glass before putting it in the sink, the scrape of glass over metal grating on his ears. 

On his way back to his room, Stiles saw that Mitch's light was still on, streaming out into the hall from under the door.

_You’re alone, Stiles. It’s what you deserve._

_I don’t want to be alone anymore._ Not tonight. 

Stiles bypassed his room and padded down the hall to his brother's, quietly opening the door and poking his head in. Mitch looked up from the book he was reading, head tilted like a curious dog.

"What's up?"

"Could I stay with you for a little bit?" Stiles asked hoarsely. His eyes burned and his throat was raw, his nose probably red from crying. Stiles was sure he made quite the sight. 

"Yeah, sure." Mitch looked so earnestly concerned the way he frowned at Stiles, dropping his book. The genuine expression that he cared was almost enough to break Stiles. Instead he let it wash over him, soothing instead of drowning. 

"Thanks." Stiles crossed the room and slipped under the covers beside Mitch, laying down next to him. His brother was warm and steady, Stiles couldn’t help gravitating to him. 

"Are you okay?"

"What are you reading?"

"The Way of Shadows. It’s a fantasy series about magic assassins and politics.” 

“Sounds cool.”

“It’s pretty cool,” Mitch agreed. He tenderly ran his fingers through Stiles’ hair, quietly pleaded, “Talk to me, Stiles. I want to help you.”

With tear-filled eyes Stiles shook his head—not enough to dislodge Mitch’s comforting touch—and said, “Please just read to me?” His voice broke, along with his brother’s heart.  

Mitch started reading out loud, and after a few minutes Stiles tentatively shuffled closer. He needed the comfort of physical touch, but didn’t know how to ask for it. Was afraid to, but didn’t know if he was more afraid of the rejection or acceptance. Mitch wrapped his arm around Stiles shoulders and he was relieved, dropping his head on his brother’s chest. 

"You have a nice voice," Stiles mumbled, turning his face against Mitch's chest, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. He closed his eyes against the soft amber light cast by his lamp and Mitch squeezed the back of his neck in acknowledgement.

The steady cadence of Mitch’s voice lulled Stiles, and he fell asleep after three chapters, soothed by his brother’s gentle touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're half way there! I'd love to hear some theories guys, what do you think is going on? Was Stiles right to give up his suspicious, is Mitch really working a white collar job, or is something worse going on? (And *hint hint* was Stiles _really_ drawn to Marie bc of his connection to his pack?)


	9. Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has his worst nightmare yet, and Mitch helps him cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! This chapter is *done*, and I'm excited to finally post this! I've been dying to post this for fkn MONTHS, this chapter's nightmare/aftermath scene is amazing. 
> 
> There's some mild gore in the nightmare sequence. One line is kinda gross, but nothing worse than what the dread doctors did to their subjects.

Mitch was later than usual when Stiles finally heard his key in the lock. He waited until Mitch opened the door and came inside before calling back a greeting to him. “Hey, how was work?” 

“Uneventful,” Mitch responded. Stiles heard fabric rustling as he took off his coat, and came over to lean across the back of the couch. “Here, I got you something.” He handed Stiles a white box that he took without thinking, distracted by his Netflix binge. 

“What is—” He glanced down at the box and his eyes widened at the brand new phone he held. “Mitch, no, I can’t take this—”

“Tough, I didn’t keep the receipt,” Mitch said. He dropped his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs and when to get a LaCroix out of the pantry, keeping his back to Stiles. “You need to have a phone on you so you can contact someone if you need it. Me, your dad, that woman from last night—doesn’t matter, but I’m not leaving you alone unless you can get ahold of someone, and I don’t have time to brood over you all day.”

“You’re already brooding,” Stiles groused, flexing his hands around the box. He was slightly distressed that Mitch just dropped at _least_ a few hundred dollars on him unprompted. 

“I meant like a hen, dumbass.” 

“So did I.” Mitch grinned at him; he knew he couldn’t deny it. 

“Set it up. I’ve got it on my plan, but you can change it to your dad’s when you go home, or not. Doesn’t matter to me.” 

Stiles worried his lip. “Are you sure?” 

“Look, even if your dad got you a new phone today, it would still take a week for him to ship it to you. This is more convenient for everyone involved; just take the phone.”

“Thanks….” It really was a nice phone, a souped up Galaxy Note that he’d been secretly lusting after for years, but never would have asked his dad to shell out for. Stiles was almost afraid to take it out of the box. 

“No problem,” Mitch said. Stiles looked over to watch him take a glass out of the cabinet and fill it with ice, then crack open his LaCroix. Stiles never liked that stuff; it smelled good but always tasted like someone took the soul out of a soda. 

Stiles lasted all of two seconds before speaking again. “So like, does this make you my sugar daddy?” Mitch almost poured his drink all over the counter, looking up at Stiles sharply, surprised by his unexpected comment. Stiles grinned back at him, uncertain in the ensuing pause. Had he really not been cracking jokes since he got here? Mitch just groaned at him and rolled his eyes, but Stiles saw right through him. Mitch was quietly pleased. _I’m way worse than I originally thought if_ that’s _enough to impress him._

“Don’t make it weird.” 

“I’m serious!”

“You’re _annoying_.” 

Stiles snickered. “Yeah, probably.” 

Stiles carefully opened the box and pulled out the sleek new phone inside. It was different from his old one; still a Samsung, though, so at least he wouldn’t have to learn a new OS. His last phone was the cheapest one his dad could get thanks to Stiles’ habit of losing and or breaking them. 

“Hey, do you have popcorn?” Stiles asked. He hadn’t done popcorn and a movie at home in forever, on account of his dad’s health, but it was something he used to love as a kid. It would be nice to bring Mitch into the tradition. 

“I think so.” 

“You should make some. And put sugar on it! Unless it’s the buttered kind, then just salt.” Stiles fiddled with getting his phone set up while he waited for Mitch. Luckily he remembered the packs’ phone numbers, otherwise he would be screwed. 

Actually, he would still be screwed when his dad tried to get a hold of him and couldn’t, and Stiles had to fess up that he lost yet another one. He smiled a little remembering the last time his dad dragged him out of AT&T by his scruff and told him this one better last _at least_ a year. Only for him to promptly drop it in the parking lot and shatter the screen. Lucky the employee that helped them saw the whole thing, and thought it was funny enough that he replaced the phone _again,_ free of charge.  Hopefully the sting would be lessened by the fact that he at least wouldn’t have to buy Stiles another phone altogether. 

A few minutes later Mitch joined Stiles on the couch with a bowl of popcorn as directed. “What’s this?” he asked. 

“It’s this show called Penny Dreadful, and it’s _so good,_ dude.”

“Don’t call me that.” Stiles ignored him. 

“It’s based on all those old horror stories they used to publish in the newspapers—hence the name—like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide, and Frankenstein, and Dracula, and all this other cool stuff. My friend Lydia told me to check it out and so far it’s _awesome._ ” Mitch didn’t ask him to but Stiles went back to the first episode anyway. Not that it really mattered, since he was only on episode three, and Mitch looked like his interest was piqued. 

Stiles liked this, spending some casual time together. Mitch looked more human with his shoes carelessly kicked under the coffee table, sharing a blanket and popcorn with Stiles for a relaxing evening Netflix binge. Mitch was easy to be around now that Stiles had finally admitted his paranoia was nothing more, finally able to see past his baseless suspicions. 

“What?” Mitch asked when he caught Stiles staring at him, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Stiles smiled back and tossed some popcorn at him. 

“Nothing, I just didn’t take you for the supernatural type.”

“Supernatural sucks, but _the_ supernatural is cool.” 

“Ah!” Stiles clutched his chest like he was wounded. “You take that back, the Winchesters are life! Also, there’s no fronting now that I know you’re a closet nerd.” 

“Whatever.” Mitch threw the popcorn pieces back at him and Stiles laughed deep in his belly. It felt good to really laugh again. 

***

Mitch wasn’t accustomed to company. He didn’t like it in general, and tried to avoid having it where he could. His apartment was his sanctuary away from the din of the city. When Stiles asked to come stay with him he had no idea what to expect, but for the most part, his life wasn’t all that disturbed by his brother’s presence. Stiles was so quiet and withdrawn, half the time it was like he wasn’t even there. 

It was concerning. Stiles wasn’t anything like Mitch had expected when they first started talking via email. He was always sending rambling messages about all kinds of topics at all hours of the night; Mitch quickly realized Stiles was an insomniac with a tendency towards research spirals. Wikipedia was a hell of a drug for an Adderall-fueled teenager. Mitch expected Stiles to be bouncing off the walls and chattering like a songbird, not staring off into space and jumping at his own shadow. 

The silence was deafening at night, and so strange that when it broke, Mitch could hear it like glass shattering on the floor. It roused him from a fitful sleep, and at first he didn't realize its source.

The clock on the nightstand flashed blue letters at him: 2:02am. Mitch could just make out Stiles moving through the apartment, his steps stilted and uneven, bare feet slapping harshly against the hardwood floor like he was thoughtlessly dropping them with each lurching step. He heard Stiles stumble, colliding with the wall. That must have been what woke him.

Equal parts curious and concerned Mitch pulled back the covers and got up to check on Stiles.

 ***

Stiles was walking through a sparse, eerily familiar forest. The preserve that surrounded Beacon Hills. Scraggly California oaks with burn scars marring their bark reached out to him with gnarled branches, snagging on his clothes. He was barefoot, dressed in the thin t-shirt and sweats he’d been given at Eichen House. The wind that kicked up cut through his clothes and the ground was cold with the chill of autumn, sapping his strength. Detritus on the forest floor leeched the warmth from his soles. 

Coyotes howled in the distance, gaining on him from the shadows, unseen. Stiles stumbled over a root and they circled him like prey, spittle flying from snarling teeth that gleamed in the full moon’s light. Stiles knew that if he could get to the den he would be safe. But it was so _cold_ , seeping into his bones, freezing his joints, turning his blood to molasses. Each step felt heavier than the last, the shock of impact echoing up through his joints as his feet collided with the earth. The rattle of it ached, had him coming undone, bone grinding against bone. A hazy fog set in over the forest—or was that just him, his vision blurry, unfocused. What was there to focus on? _Too much._ It wasn’t a normal kind of fog that rolled in, hazing his eyes and memories. It brought lethargy and apathy, until eventually Stiles couldn’t stand at all, sinking to his knees, his hands, and collapsing to the side.

Sties tried to crawl away from the coyotes. They came closer, scratching at his back with too-sharp claws, rending flesh. The blood on his back was hot, painful against his hypothermic skin. A brand. _I’m covered in it._ His hands, scraped from dragging himself across the ground, from trying to protect himself, were stained crimson. The blood wasn’t all his. 

_I just need to get to the den._

_Why, why is it safe, what’s waiting there for me?_

The trees stilled. A hush descended over the woods. _It’s like Silent Hill,_ Stiles frantically thought. He held his breath— _Don’t make a sound._ He couldn’t move. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, on his arms, on his legs. A sixth sense that told him if he moved, he would be found. The coyotes howled and snarled, and Stiles held his breath. _They’re going to bring it here!_

 _What will they bring?_ His heart beat a frantic staccato in his chest because _he didn’t know._ The fog was so thick around him he couldn’t see: He was blind. How was he supposed to fight when he _couldn’t see?_

Something much larger than the coyotes snarled, rough and dry, and they scampered off with high wines. _No, come back!_ The last one dashed underneath a fallen tree and Stiles was left alone. Burning lungs made him gasp for air, a mistake. The fog was acidic and acrid. His gasp drew the attention of eyes he could feel but not find. 

_Sti~les. Come out, come out, wherever you are._

He scrambled to his feet, ignored the pressure he felt on his savaged soles. Twigs and rocks were insignificant to him. _Sticks and stones may break my bones._ He could take the pain of them digging and cutting into his flesh. He couldn’t take the Nogitsune’s violation of his mind again. 

The den was up ahead, he could feel it. Recognized the trees around him, the ravine where the car was left to rot. The burning scent of repellent that made his eyes water. He was almost safe. 

Then the numbness was shot through with a bright flare of pain, white hot and excruciating. Stiles looked down at his foot to find a steel-jaw trap around his ankle. A disconnected sort of realization, like it wasn't happening to him at all. Just a movie, a character on the screen while he sat dispassionately in the audience.

_That can't be me._

But the pain was so very real. His blood soaked into the ground. Greedy roots he knew led back to the Nemeton burst up to drink the crimson flow. They writhed towards him, towards the source, and Stiles jerked away with a scream. The Nemeton had already taken one sacrifice from him but it wouldn’t be sated, it’s hunger for tributes was endless. Years of neglect left it starving for fresh meat, and Stiles had already proved his willingness to offer up his body. Roughened roots wrapped around and _squeezed_ , milking blood from the wound, writhing into the lattice of his veins for more, and his voice died on a soundless scream.

Electricity rushed through his veins in a hard crackle, sparking at his fingertips and static on his lips like a kiss. It tingled in the soles of his feet and poured into the forest floor like foxfire, grounding him even as he floated somewhere above it all. The Nemeton recoiled from him, crimson roots pulling away with a wet _schluck._

All around him he could hear the coyotes closing in, the harsh, rasping laugh of the Nogitsune close behind, and he couldn't read the directions on the trap to free himself.

*** 

Mitch caught Stiles just as he collapsed, his brother making these horrible, high whines in the back of his throat, trying to crawl away. Mitch shook him hard, called his name, trying to wake Stiles from his nightmare. Phantom pain crawled up his right leg in a watered down echo of hurt that wasn’t his. It was disorienting to feel the waves of agony and misery pouring off of his brother, having to separate what he felt and what was Stiles. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. 

"Wake up, Stiles!" Mitch shouted, holding back Stiles' wrists to keep him from clawing at his ankle, desperate to escape the trap that wasn't there.

Blaring stadium lights flashed on, blinding him, before Stiles woke screaming, thrashing to get away. Mitch was stronger than him, arms locked around his torso even as a wave of vertigo hit him. Stiles’ thoughts echoed in a chaotic jumble, like free electrons bouncing around the room. 

Stiles trembled in his arms, skin clammy and freezing, eyes darting frantically around the room. He was a rabbit that knew he was being hunted, even if he couldn’t see the predator lurking in the shadows. 

When the feverish haze cleared Stiles’ eyes and he realized where they were, on the floor between the living room and kitchen, polished wood hard beneath him, he took one stuttering gasp—then stopped breathing.

"Stiles, it's okay, you're okay. It was just a nightmare," Mitch tried to soothe, even though there was nothing he believed less. He swallowed past the starved ache in his lungs; whatever was going on with Stiles, he was nowhere in the realm of okay. 

"N-n-no-no-no." Stiles' breaths came in rapid, desperate gasps, not carrying enough oxygen to his lungs. He wrenched harshly at his hair until Mitch pulled his hands away, holding Stiles arms around himself, forging a cage of his own bones. Making him trap himself, and it was so similar to what the Nogitsune did—holding him prisoner within his own body—that it only made things worse. 

Stiles struggled to escape, feeling lightheaded and constricted. He was wrapped in bandages, his lungs filled with smoke and flies, suffocating. But Mitch held him fast, body warm against Stiles' cold corpse. Eventually, that warmth seeped into Stiles, soothing his violent chills. The cage of his brother's arms began to feel safe, barred against the outside world, keeping it out instead of locking him in. 

By the time Stiles' vision was spotting from asphyxiation, blackness darkening the edges, he’d worn himself out. Mitch kept talking to him in a soothing litany that Stiles couldn’t quite make out, his lips brushing Stiles' ear and his voice low, a steady rhythm to his rapid heart. Stiles was still making those ugly whimpers, like a wounded animal. He _felt_ like a wounded animal.

When Mitch was sure Stiles was too exhausted to hurt himself, he finally let go. Stiles whined pitifully, grabbed him before he could pull away, clinging to Mitch with the last of his strength.

"Stiles?"

"Don't leave me," He whispered. Stiles turned into Mitch’s chest just enough to wrap one limp, aching arm around his shoulders, clenching a trembling hand in the back of his shirt.

"I'm not going anywhere," Mitch promised, shifting his hold on Stiles so he was curled up in his lap like a scared child. Which is exactly what he was, a kid that's been through too much, broken by the trauma he's experienced. So hurt that his only option was to leave, willing to go to a complete stranger to get away. Mitch rubbed Stiles back and whispered, ”I won’t leave you alone.” 

*** 

Mitch picked Stiles up off the floor and carried him when he couldn't stand on his own. He bypassed Stiles' room, continuing down the hall to his own instead, knowing Stiles wouldn't be able to sleep alone tonight. Instead of putting Stiles to bed he carried him into the en suite and set him down on wobbling legs, keeping one arm around his waist so he wouldn’t fall. 

"You need to take a shower." Stiles' skin was sticky with half-dried sweat and sour with fear, but he shook his head after taking one step and almost falling. He couldn't stand on his own long enough to get cleaned up and falling could lead to injury.

Mitch made the decision to draw a bath instead, twisting the taps until steaming water began filling the claw-foot tub. He went back to Stiles, hands tugging the hem of his shirt.

"Is this alright?" Stiles’ dropped his head in a nod, still out of it. He looked like he would fall asleep any second if he didn’t keep nodding himself awake. Like he was afraid of what unconcious horrors his mind would torment him with next. Shadows were met with suspicion and Stiles’ darting eyes resolutely avoided the mirror.

Mitch undressed Stiles efficiently, tossing his clothes in the hamper. Stiles listed into him, shivering and feeling vulnerable, but didn’t try to cover himself. Why bother? He didn't have enough hands to cover all the ways he was inadequate. Standing naked in front of his brother just made the contrast all the more stark; he would never measure up. He wasn’t 147 pounds anymore—less, probably—but he was still pale skin and fragile bone; arguably more fragile now in this temporary host of a body. 

“Jesus Christ,” Mitch said under his breath, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear. Stiles flinched away when he felt Mitch’s fingertips brush his side, tracing lighter than a feather over his prominent ribs. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the scrutiny in brother’s eyes. "Come on,” Mitch said louder. He coaxed Stiles into the bath, then soaked a washcloth in the hot water and lathered it with body wash. He gently ran it over Stiles' arms and chest, replacing his fear with the gentle scent of lemon grass. It was soothing, familiar. The same scent Stiles recognized from the jacket Mitch let him borrow that first night. The scent that followed safety and warmth, sanctuary. 

Stiles let Mitch move him like a disjointed doll, his head lolling back over the edge of the tub. The sound of water and gentle scrubbing and quiet breaths the only noise between them, Stiles looking up at Mitch with half-lidded eyes, watching him work in quiet concentration. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and sleep-mussed hair, his clothes rumpled. 

Mitch pushed lightly on Stiles' shoulders, wanting to get his hair wet so he could wash it as well. Stiles did so without thinking, sinking beneath the surface of the soapy water, and almost immediately surged back up with a wet gasp. Then Mitch's hands were on him again, his touch solid and grounding.

"You're safe, Stiles." Mitch held the back of his neck, steadying him before another panic attack could begin, thumb sweeping against his hairline. "You're safe." Slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders. Only then did Mitch lather shampoo in his hair, nails scritching pleasantly against his scalp. Goosebumps rose along Stiles’ skin and he fought the urge to moan, lucid enough that he didn’t want to make this into something it wasn’t. To risk Mitch pulling away. 

Stiles leaned into it, sighed when Mitch began to rub his neck and shoulders with soapy hands. His slow, confident touch kneading into taught muscle further bled away the tension knotting Stiles’ body.

Mitch didn't ask Stiles to go under the water again. Instead he gently told him to close his eyes, and wrung the washcloth over his head to rinse out the shampoo. Stiles was grateful when Mitch repeated the process until it was all rinsed away, leaving Stiles' hair soft and flat.

"Come on." Mitch helped Stiles out of the tub and wrapped him in a dark blue towel, fluffy and non abrasive against his sensitive skin. Mitch dried him carefully while Stiles stood mannequin-still.

In the bedroom, Mitch got a set of soft clothes for Stiles to sleep in, turning down the covers and putting his back to Stiles to give him some semblance of privacy. Meaningless after bathing him, but it felt like a different kind of intimacy to watch him dress.

*** 

Stiles came slinking up behind Mitch, tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder. There was a quiet desperation in his eyes, something he wanted but couldn't ask for. Fortunately, Mitch had developed a special talent for reading Stiles. He wrapped him up in his arms, Stiles melting into him with a relieved sigh. His gratitude was obvious in the way he held onto Mitch, pressing into him, afraid to let go. They stayed together for several long moments, standing beside the bed in the mostly dark room, Mitch stroking his hand up and down Stiles’ back until Stiles broke the silence.

"Thank you," He whispered against Mitch’s neck, dry lips rasping against his skin. 

Mitch pressed a soft kiss to his temple and held Stiles tighter for a moment. "Let's get some sleep."

It was almost 4am when they got under the covers. Stiles hesitated—this was different than last night, where he fell asleep unintentionally—but Mitch opened his arms and Stiles gladly accepted the invitation for what it was.

Mitch held Stiles close, let Stiles cling to him like he would disappear. Like Mitch was the only thing in the world keeping him tethered.

Stiles' eyes were red and swollen still, his cheeks blotchy from crying, and there were faint imprints around his wrists from where Mitch gripped him too tight. They were red for now, but would no doubt bruise over the course of the next few days. Stiles’ new body was delicate, even more than his last had been; it wasn’t made to survive. 

Mitch rubbed Stiles’ wrists where his hands lay between them, tracing the ache. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

"Pain makes you human," Stiles mumbled. He closed his eyes on a ragged sigh, hiding his face in the worn fabric of Mitch's shirt. His dry lips caught on the material, nothing like his brother’s soft kiss. "Don’t… don't let me…." _go anywhere, hurt anyone._ He couldn't make himself say the words, just thinking them was enough to make him shudder.

"I won't," Mitch promised. He ran his fingers through Stiles' damp hair, soothing him into an uneasy sleep. Somehow, Stiles believed Mitch really would be able to keep him from hurting anybody.

***

The next morning was uneasy. Stiles woke up alone. When he reached over, Mitch’s side of the bed was empty and cold. He was afraid of what he would find if he left the bed, but he couldn’t stay there forever. Reluctantly he drew back the covers and got up, making his way out of the room. 

The sun was bright and shining in the sky, probably sometime around eleven. Stiles felt more rested than he had in weeks. 

He found Mitch sitting at the bar, looking pensive over a cup of coffee. Stiles didn’t make it much past the living room, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Hey…” 

“Hey. How’re you feeling?” Mitch asked dully.

“Uh… better, I think. Thanks.” Stiles was nervous to approach; Mitch seemed different from last night, subdued, and he didn’t know what that meant. “How are you…?” His brother only shrugged. 

“What were you dreaming about last night?” 

“I dunno. Just standard nightmare stuff, I guess. I’ve been having some pretty bad ones this year, just from all the stress and stuff.”

“Stress from what?” 

“School,” Stiles lied, beginning to feel like Mitch was interrogating him rather than asking after his general wellbeing. Bitterly, he added, “And the fact that one of my friends was murdered.”

“But that’s not all of it, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mitch huffed a humorless laugh. 

“Sure you don’t.” He raked a hand through his hair, and Stiles realized this was not the gentle man that cared for him last night. Mitch was terse and frustrated; he knew Stiles wasn’t giving him the whole truth. It wasn’t fair for Stiles to keep him in the dark while expecting Mitch to deal with him, but he knew Mitch wouldn’t want to hear the truth anymore than Stiles wanted to talk about it. 

“I don’t know how to help you,” Mitch announced, and Stiles felt his heart jump into his throat. _He’s going to send me back to Beacon Hills._ “I don’t know what happened to you, and if you’re not going to talk to me, I can’t try to fix it. But I do know that whatever happened, hiding from the world isn’t the answer here.” 

“Going out just makes it worse.” 

“You were fine when we went to Central Park,” Mitch countered sharply. “You only had problems when we went to the Statue of Liberty, and when you went out alone.” He tapped his fingers on the side of his coffee mug thoughtfully. “Maybe being surrounded by so many people is your issue.” 

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, if only to loosen the tense set of Mitch’s shoulders. He was following along so far. “Except I don’t think I’m agoraphobic.” He wouldn’t take anything off the table, but he wasn’t afraid of going outside. Anti-social, maybe. 

“Sure, but maybe what you need is to ease into it. Crawl before you walk kind of thing.”

The only problem was, Stiles didn’t want to crawl. He wanted to stay in the apartment where it was warm and safe and smelled like lemon grass.

***

Stiles made himself a cup of Marie’s tea and left Mitch to his brooding, sitting over by the big picture window for some of his own contemplation. The city streets didn’t look so scary from here, far away from them. Like he was floating on a cloud. Or suspended in a safety net. 

Stiles couldn’t expect to stay here for the rest of his life. He needed to get back out there, reintegrate himself into society if he ever wanted to be a functioning member. Mitch had shown him the patience of a saint, and it wasn’t fair that Stiles didn’t even try to put in the same effort. How could he expect Mitch to deal with him if he wasn’t willing to do the same? 

The tea worked wonders. Stiles felt calm and collected by the time he finished his cup—admittedly dragging it out, taking infrequent, slow sips to make it last. 

After Mitch finished his coffee he rinsed out the cup and went to work out—a short run on the treadmill, Stiles could hear him—then took a shower. Stiles thought of doing the same. Then he thought of Mitch’s tender hands on him last night, and didn’t want to wash away his comforting touch just yet. He would need whatever comfort he could get when he left. 

It took a lot more courage than it should for Stiles to go up to Mitch and ask, “Can we go get pizza?” 

***

When they got to an Italian restaurant on a street corner flanked by a café and a bakery, Stiles was thankful to see there weren’t many people milling about inside. They parked around back in what Stiles was pretty sure was a prohibited zone, but Mitch waved him off when he pointed it out, looking way too confident for someone who was probably about to get a parking violation.

 _Of course, any fine he may get will be pocket change to him,_ Stiles thought with an internal eye roll. Jackson was always the same way back home; parking fines were just the price of admission. 

Once inside they were greeted by the mouthwatering scent of herbs and fresh dough, and Mitch was almost immediately recognized. One of the waitresses called something back to the kitchen, and then a round Italian man came out with a bright smile, speaking in rapid Italian. Mitch responded in kind, but stumbled over the end of a sentence, forgetting the words to use.

“Ah, Mitch, it’s been too long since you’ve come! You’re losing your touch.” 

“Sorry, Gio,” Mitch said, smiling at the gentle scolding. The man—Gio—laughed brightly and slapped him on the back, before yanking him into a hug. The fact that Mitch was a head taller than him had no bearing on the way he pushed him around. 

“And who is this?” Gio asked, releasing Mitch and rounding on Stiles.

“My brother, Stiles,” Mitch said, laughing when Gio caught Stiles around the middle, squeezing him into a hug faster than he had a chance to protest. He looked to his brother with wide eyes, not knowing what to do—the last thing he expected from this outing was bodily assault—but Mitch was no help at all. 

“Welcome, welcome. Any family to Mitch is family to me.”

“Thank you.” Stiles laughed uncomfortably, extricating himself. More shouting drew Gio back to the kitchen. He told them to sit anywhere they pleased, and they went to find an open booth.

***

Gio, it turned out, had known Mitch since he was a teenager. 

“He used to come skulking around like an angry cat, lurking in the corner to do his homework and hissing at anyone that came near.” 

“I did _not,_ ” Mitch defended, scandalized. 

“I can see it.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to be on my side, Stiles.” Stiles grinned innocently at Mitch and took a bite of his pizza. It was actually awesome, way better than cheap Little Caesar's. He could understand why Mitch insisted on driving so out of the way to get it. 

“It’s a shame Chiara isn’t here today,” Gio said, his tone laden with implication. “She’ll be sad to have missed you.” 

Stiles looked between the two of them, his ears pricking up. He was always interested in learning more about Mitch, and that sounded like a story. “Who’s Chiara?”

“No one,” Mitch said at the same time that Gio proudly announced, “My niece.” Stiles’ interest was piqued by his brother’s sudden shiftiness. Why didn’t he want to talk about her? Was she an ex-girlfriend? 

Stiles’ stomach knotted up and he picked apart a napkin, shredding it into little pieces so he could have something to do with his hands. It was still a little nerve wracking to be outside, even if the restaurant wasn’t crowded. Thankfully Gio didn’t pass up the opportunity to torment Mitch a little more, providing a worthy distraction. 

“She’s had a crush on Mitch for years. I’ve been telling him to take her out, but alas. Your brother is a stubborn one.”

“She’s like _fourteen,”_ Mitch protested. 

“She’s twenty-two, now.” Gio looked at Mitch slyly. “Perfect dating age for you, no?”

“Oh my god…” Mitch was actually _blushing._ Stiles was living for it, wished he could get that kind of rise out of his brother. Mitch was usually so calm and collected with him, like a statue. It just went to show how familiar he was with Gio, that he could so easily get a rise out of him. 

Stiles delighted to have met someone with real dirt on his brother, but a little jealous that he couldn’t also be that person. Unfortunately, Gio took that moment to get back to work, depriving Stiles of more embarrassing childhood stories. He turned his attention on Mitch and put on a smile he didn’t feel.

“So _Chia~ra._ ”

“Don’t even start,” Mitch groused, but Stiles saw right through him. His brother was happy. 

“Sure thing, Casanova.” 

***

“Was that worth getting out for?” Mitch asked knowingly, once they were finished with their pizzas. 

“ _Way_ better than the Statue of Liberty,” Stiles agreed. He licked the excess sauce off his fingers and rolled his eyes when Mitch tried to shove the napkins towards him. Where was the fun in that? "Where are we going now?" He felt like he could handle another outing, so long as it was lowkey like this. 

Before Mitch had a chance to respond, his phone rang. Stiles almost startled from the sudden sound of it. For a moment Mitch looked like he wouldn’t answer, scowling when he fished it out of his jeans and saw the caller ID. Then he sighed and answered with a sharp, “What?” Stiles flinched at the whip-like tone. He felt sorry for the person on the receiving end of Mitch’s ire. Stiles watched his brother's expression darken with annoyance, clearly displeased with whatever the person on the other end had to say. Slowly his smile faded and his shoulders slumped.

"You don't need me there, this is what we have lawyers for. Handle it," Mitch said coolly, looking apologetically at Stiles. He just shrugged with a slight, disappointed smile. He took his new phone out and entertained himself on an app he downloaded earlier, slumping in his seat.

***

" _I'm sorry, sir, but they're refusing to talk to anyone but you; they're already offended that we're making them wait. I think siccing the legal team on them will just make the situation worse."_

"Damn." Mitch ran his hand through his hair, glancing across at Stiles who was trying to look like he wasn't attempting to listen in on the call. They were finally making progress. Of course that meant things had to go to shit at work right when he was getting the kid to come out of his shell. It was so tempting to hang up the phone and ignore the situation until tomorrow. Too tempting, if he was being honest with himself.

But Mitch knew his mind was already made up. As much as he wished he could be irresponsible and play hooky for the day, deal with the crisis tomorrow, he actually needed this deal to go through. "Okay, fine, I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

" _Sir, I really think this is more urgent than—"_

"Forty-five minutes, Sean. I don't care if they think I'm disrespecting them, I'm the one who's being inconvenienced here."

" _Yes, sir. I'll pass that along."_

"Thank you."

"What was that about?" Stiles asked after he hung up, peering curiously at Mitch as he slipped his phone back in his pocket.

"Crisis at work. We're going to have to take a slight detour. I'm sorry, Stiles."

"It's cool." Stiles played with the hem of his sleeve, trying not make Mitch feel guilty for something he couldn't control, deflecting with humor as always. "Do I finally get to see you in action? You sounded pretty murderous there."

"I'm not a hitman," Mitch said, smiling.

"That sounds like something a hitman would say," Stiles teased, but his heart wasn't in it. The previous light atmosphere they'd had was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Finally some *real* tension between the boys. Now is the time to start giving me your thoughts and theories, and anyone who gets it right gets a cookie xD
> 
> Edit: I have addressed this individually in the comments a few times, but I figure I should do it here too since it keeps coming up. Mitch does not work for the CIA in this fic. Some American Assassin characters may make an appearance in the sequel, but not with the same government involvement that they have in canon. I don't want to spoil anything, but I don't feel it's a spoiler to tell you that that just straight up isn't happening: Mitch isn't a spy. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up for the wrong thing here. This is 100% AU, totally divorced from canon. Mitch's angst comes from his upbringing, not from losing Katrina. (However, I will not confirm/deny that he's a hitman, just that he's not working under/associated with the government)


	10. Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7k chapter again, rip 
> 
> Another one I've had in the works for a while! Many of you have had a lot of questions about Claudia. Hopefully this chapter will answer some (and spark others lol)

Stiles figured they were getting close to their destination as Mitch got progressively more tense, his expression hard and his jaw clenched. A sharp contrast to how he’d been at the restaurant. When they stepped into Giovanni’s, it was like a weight had been lifted off his brother’s shoulders. He was relaxed, more carefree and lively than Stiles had ever seen him. 

When they pulled into the parking structure, Stiles was almost afraid to speak with how stormy Mitch looked. The lobby of the building— _Orion_ , proudly etched into the stone framework above the entrance—was mostly empty and austere. A woman’s heels clacked loudly against the black tile floor, and the man behind the receptionist’s desk waved them through. 

In the elevator, the tension was so thick you couldn’t cut it with a knife. The ride was long, Stiles keeping his eyes trained on the floor display the entire time as it pinged through each level Finally it ended at twenty-three. 

Stiles scrambled to follow Mitch's brisk pace. Mitch took brother taking long, purposeful strides across the tiled floor while Stiles struggled to keep up with him, painfully aware of the eyes that followed them. Mitch didn't seem to notice the attention they garnered, people watching with varying degrees of derision and confusion as they stalked across the building. And it was no wonder; Stiles was out of place with his ratty shoes and worn out clothes compared to everyone else in the building, clad in professional attire that probably cost more than most peoples’ rent. 

A secretary looked down her pointed nose at Stiles, watching him like a hawk as they passed. Her narrowed eyes seemed to scream, _you don't belong here._ He averted his eyes, moved closer to Mitch like if he could only stand close enough he would be swept up in his brother’s confidence. It didn’t work. 

Keeping his eyes studiously trained on the floor to avoid the disapproving looks, Stiles collided with the firm line of Mitch's back when he abruptly stopped walking. Stiles jumped back like he was burned, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"Sorry," he mumbled, trying desperately to will away the flush on his cheeks. In front of them stood a man watching them with an uncertain kind of smile. Mitch took the liberty of introducing him.

"Stiles, this is Sean, my—"

"—Manservant."

"Soon to be fired assistant," Mitch corrected, the corner of his mouth ticked up into an almost-smile. "Stiles is my brother. Take him to my office, will you?"

"Sure thing, boss." Sean handed Mitch a manila file. "They're in conference room four."

"Thank you." Stiles watched as Mitch walked away without another word, slipping into an all glass room with a team of angry men. Stiles couldn't help but think his brother was going into the lion's den, watching as one of the men started yelling as soon as the door closed behind him. The man looked affronted when Mitch held up a hand and cut him off with a presumably terse comment. Stiles didn't get to see anything else after that; Mitch walked over to snap the blinds closed, blocking the room from nosy onlookers.

"I definitely don't envy them," Sean said, turning to Stiles. He couldn't be more than a few years younger than Mitch, and he was handsome, dressed neatly in a dark suit that set off his bright blue eyes, perfectly styled like he'd walked off a runway. Stiles was intimidated to say the least; Sean held himself with the kind of confidence Stiles had never possessed—at least, not until he _was_ possessed. The Nogitsune wore his body with that same self-assuredness. Like he knew he was the smartest person in the room at any given moment.

"Should we be worried about Mitch?” Stiles asked. He kept trying to see through the blinds to no avail. “Those guys looked pissed."

"Oh no, Mr. Rapp is going to eat them alive," Sean said with a chuckle. "He's very good at what he does." Sean smiled at him—he didn’t look at Stiles with the same suspicious scrutiny everyone else did—and looked like he should be in a Colgate commercial, his teeth blindingly white and perfectly straight. "Come on, his office is this way."

"What _does_ Mitch do?" Stiles asked, following Sean in the opposite direction Mitch had gone. With the way people had been quick to get out of his way as they came in, and how he seemed to make his own schedule, Stiles assumed he was someone important. More important than he’d led Stiles to believe. 

"He didn't tell you?"

"He said he was a stock analyst, I think.” Sheepishly, he added, “But I thought he was a hitman or something. Very Jack Ryan.” Saying it out loud—to someone _normal—_ made him realize how stupid that sounded. No normal person would think that; of course, normal people didn't exist in the world he did, where contract killers were the least of their problems. But Sean laughed, and Stiles relaxed minutely.

"I know what you mean, he's got that whole John Wick schtick. When he interviewed me for this position I was _terrified_." Stiles knew the feeling. Seeing Mitch for the first time had been like diving into a frozen lake. "Mr. Rapp runs this company. He took over after his father died, about eight years ago, I think? A good thing, too, because it was being run into the ground. But your brother managed to turn things around before it went under entirely; now it's one of the top rated international investment firms in the world."

"Impressive," Stiles said weakly, self-consciously straightening his shirt. "How long have you been working for Mitch?"

"Two years. I wasn't even supposed to be interviewing with him, actually; something got mixed up I guess, and he decided to hire me. No idea why, but I'm definitely not complaining." Sean stopped him in front of a large corner office, made of glass like the conference room. "This is Mr. Rapp's office. I'll be right over there." Sean pointed to what looked like a receptionist's desk. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Anytime." Stiles was about to let Sean leave, wanting to get away from all of the people that kept giving him strange looks, when something occurred to him.

"Wait! Um, do you know how long Mitch's, uh… meeting is going to take?"

"I'm not sure. At least an hour. Make yourself comfortable," Sean said with an apologetic smile, then went to his desk.

Frowning, Stiles pushed open the door to Mitch's office. Everything was modern like his apartment; hard lines and clean edges, sleek glass and steel. No sound came through despite the thin glass walls. It made Stiles feel like he was in a fish bowl.

He took a few minutes to look around the large office, staring with the bookcase taking up most of one wall. Running his fingertip along the spines, he wondered if Mitch ever actually read any of the books, or if they were just for show. He picked one at random to pull down— _Principles of Macroeconomics._ Another, _Introduction to Microeconomics._ Another, _Business Law._ They looked like textbooks, probably from his time in college. Stiles flipped through one at random and found it full of annotations. The bottom shelf housed a collection of language dictionaries and law books. Of course Mitch would have his office stocked with leather-bound tomes that were actually useful to his work. If not for an every-day purpose then at least it made a good reference collection.

There wasn't a single book for pleasure-reading. Disappointed, Stiles moved on to Mitch's desk. On it was a neat stack of organized files, like the one he’d been handed earlier, his computer, and a perpetual motion construct that Stiles entertained himself with, knocking one of the bars over and watching them spin. He sat at the desk mesmerized until the bars reached their equilibrium again, slowly coming to a still.

There was an elegant chess set on the desk as well, the pieces buildings from the New York skyline fashioned from delicate metal, but Stiles didn't dare touch it. Chess was yet another thing the Nogitsune ruined for him.

Feeling morose, Stiles stood from the desk and walked over to the wall of windows behind it. The view was beautiful, looking out over the glimmering chrome and glass of New York. Stiles couldn't imagine why Mitch would want to put his back to it.

Then he looked down, and his vision swam from the height. Beacon Memorial had only been three stories high when he stood on the ledge of the roof, prepared to throw himself off. The ground had seemed so far away, then, the fall intimidating. It was nothing compared to looking down twenty-three stories above the ground.

Stiles could barely make out the individual shapes of people milling around below, an undulating, massless swarm, no larger than ants, specks in the distance. Rushing to and fro like buzzing flies.

He stumbled back, catching himself against Mitch's desk, the sharp edges at the corners digging into his hamstrings. The floor swayed beneath him and his legs collapsed, sending him to the ground in a heap of graceless limbs. Folded in on himself, it was a struggle to take in enough oxygen. His lungs had no room to expand, chest pressed against his knees, forcing his breaths to come in shallow and fast. Uneven pants that had him dizzy, the room spinning and morphing around him. 

***

Stiles could feel the cold bite of California winter on his skin, his bare arms breaking out in goosebumps as he shivered. The gravel of the roof bit into his soles, blood slowly seeping onto the rocks beneath him. He clamored up onto the ledge and looked down onto the ground below; the parking lot was all but empty this late at night. Across the lot red and white lights flashed, ambulance sirens screaming as it careened down the road, speeding through to the ambulance bay. Stiles' pale skin was lit with bright red, but not blood. Not yet.

Beneath him, a couple made their way into the hospital, carrying flowers and 'Get Well Soon!' balloons. Seeing a grandparent or a friend, or maybe a child. Stiles knew he wouldn't be getting balloons, only flowers as pale as death.

Tears streamed down his face, biting in the cold wind. Stiles closed his eyes, thought it would be easier if he didn't see the ground rushing up to meet him, and took that final step that would end all of the pain—

Only to be wrenched back, the Nogitsune screeching in his mind, vying for control. Stiles had already given it up, surrendered himself as he tried to step off the ledge; for a split second there was no more resistance, and that was all it needed.

"No," Stiles sobbed to the stars above, but it wasn't his voice, not anymore.

"You're not getting away from us that easy, Stiles," the Nogitsune spat, Stiles' lips forming the words even as sobs wracked his body. He begged for a death that would never come. Not while there was still such chaos to cause, such delicious pain to feast on.

The Nogitsune split his mind open like it was cutting through an overripe pomegranate, picking carelessly through the bloody seeds of his memory until it found one that would taste sweetest.

_Claudia's thin fingers were like claws where they curled around his biceps, her gentle touch turning harsh, cruel._

_"You're not my sweet boy," she said. "You're a monster. A monster! You're going to kill me!"_

_"Mom, mommy stop!" Stiles cried, his voice higher than it should be. Younger. He looked up at her, big whiskey eyes filled with tears. His mom didn't recognize him, her brown eyes vacant and so, so_ angry. _Stiles knew mommy was going to kill him._

_Laughter echoed in Stiles' thoughts, the Nogitsune watching as Claudia tried to drag Stiles kicking and screaming to the edge of the roof, holding him by the hood of his sweater._

_"Claudia, stop!" John yelled, running out onto the roof. He pulled Claudia away from Stiles who ran, collapsing onto the ground, unable to breathe. "Jesus, Dee, what are you doing? He's just a_ kid. _He’s_ our _kid!_ "

_"He's trying to kill me, John!” Claudia fought frantically against John’s hold, scratching his arms to make him let go. Red scores followed her short nails, blood beading in placed, but John didn’t dare let her go. “Look at him, he's a monster!"_

_"He's your son!"_

_"No, no, not my boy. Not anymore. It took him from me! You have to see, John, that's not our baby anymore!"_

_"Listen to yourself, this is crazy! Look at him, Claudia, that's Stiles, and you're_ scaring _him."_

_Stiles, too young to know what she was talking about, wept on the ground, his hands and knees skinned by the gravel. "Mama," he sobbed, little hands grabbing fistfuls of rocks. “I’m sorry!” He wanted his mother back. His real mom, not the one who hated him._

_Claudia stared at Stiles, and slowly, the vacant mania in her eyes faded. She stopped trying to fight John, going lax in his arms as her eyes filled with tears. She collapsed and he eased her to the ground, pulling back._

_"Oh, honey, my darling boy. I'm so sorry," Claudia wept. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Come here, Stiles baby."_

_Stiles ran to her, collapsing into her arms, but John wasn't so trusting. He watched them carefully, waiting for Claudia to lash out again. "I'm not gonna hurt you, mama, I would never." He would never hurt anyone._

_Claudia brushed back Stiles' messy hair, cooing to him. "I know, darling, I know. It's not your fault," she said. Something in the way she sounded sent a shiver down Stiles' back, chilling him to the core._

_"Mom?" He asked hesitantly._

_"Claudia?" John reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, looking ready to pull her away from Stiles. Claudia just smiled, pulling back from Stiles and cupping his cheeks, using her thumbs to brush away his tears._

_"It's okay. My handsome boys. I love you both so much."_

_"Are you okay, mommy?"_

_"Yes, sweetheart. Everything is going to be okay. And I want you to know mama loves you."_

_"I love you, too," Stiles whispered. Claudia kissed his forehead, then looked into his eyes, a perfect match for her own._

_"Listen to me, Stiles. Listen very closely, okay?"_

_"Okay."_

_"My good boy." Claudia smiled, tears spilling down her cheeks, but she didn't look away. Neither did Stiles. He couldn't. It was like she held him pinned in place, looking past him, through him. "No matter what, don't ever think it was your fault. You never could have stopped it. And I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Stiles. I tried, I tried so hard to spare you this pain, but I wasn't strong enough. And now that burden falls to you. You're so young, too young to go through this, but you are so strong, baby. Never forget that."_

_"I don't understand, I don't—"_

_"I know, baby. You're not ready yet, but you will when it's time. And no matter what, remember that I love you, okay sweetheart? I love you."_

_"I love you too…"_

_Claudia's gaze hardened then, and Stiles was paralyzed. Her grip was gentle, but her eyes were unkind. When John tried to pull her away she didn't budge._

_"Listen you monster," she said, voice cold._

_"Claudia, that's enough."_

_"I know you can hear me. You may have killed me, but my son won't let you win, I don't care how clever you are. My boys will never be your playthings."_

_Finally, the nurses came running onto the roof. Stiles was separated from Claudia by John, while the nurses restrained her, two strong men holding her back while another readied a syringe._

_"You can't have him, demon! Kill me, but you'll never have him!" Stiles watched, afraid, as Claudia was sedated, a long needle plunged into the side of her neck. It was fast acting, within seconds her words were slurring, and only moments after that she was unconscious, going limp._

_"What did she mean?" Stiles whispered, clutching his father's arm. John sighed, weary, feeling so much older than his thirty-eight years._

_"I don't know, son. Your mom is very sick. I don't think even she knew what she was talking about." John picked Stiles up, the young boy clinging to him. "C'mon, kiddo, your mom needs to get some rest. Let's go home."_

_"Okay, daddy."_

_But instead of following the nurses back into the hospital, John walked over to the ledge. He pried Stiles off of him and threw him over like he weighed nothing. Stiles could hear the laughter of the Nogitsune, its voice coming out of his father's mouth._

_'This is what you wanted, wasn't it, Stiles?'_

_He screamed as the ground rushed up to meet him._

"—les… Stiles… Stiles!"

Stiles grabbed Sean by the front of his suit, looking up at him with wild eyes, panting. His throat was raw from screaming. Sean's eyes were wide and afraid, his hands tight around Stiles' shoulders.

"Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?" He asked, full of concern now that Stiles was awake. Stiles looked at his hands and saw that they were shaking. His whole body trembled, and his face was damp; with sweat or tears, he couldn't tell.

"No, no, I—I'm okay, just—where's the bathroom?" He stuttered out, shrinking away from Sean. He didn’t want a stranger’s touch. It was a struggle to get back to his feet, his legs unsteady under him. He had to hold himself up against the desk.

"I'm going to call your brother," Sean said, reaching for the phone on the desk. Stiles snatched his arm before he could think, his fingers like claws around Sean's wrist, nails digging into his skin.

"No! Please don't—don't bother him. I'm fine, just, please, you can't—" He took a deep breath, letting go of Sean to hug himself, sniffling pitifully. "Where's the bathroom?" He asked again, steadying his voice by sheer will, as though appearing calm now would make Sean forget whatever he had seen.

"It's down the hall to the left…" Stiles barely managed to give a mumbled thanks before he was all but running out of the office. Employees watched Stiles as he went, making his face burn in humiliation. He pulled his hood up to hide away from their stares, his eyes stinging. There was no doubt they had seen everything, courtesy of the glass walls. They had probably heard his screams, too.

They probably thought he was some charity case. A fucked up, crazy teenager Mitch had taken in like a stray puppy to nurse back to health. It was only a matter of time before Mitch got bored of him and moved on to something else, though, once word got back to him about Stiles' meltdown. No one could put up with Stiles' insanity forever, and someone of Mitch's standing didn't need to be associated with someone like him. Stiles’ inability to control himself would be a stain on his brother’s reputation before long. Just like Peter was to Derek. 

Once in the bathroom Stiles made sure it was empty and locked himself inside. He was still panting, his back pressed against the door. The harsh, sterile scent of cleaning chemicals overlaid with lemon air freshener burned his raw throat and made it impossible to take a full breath. He flinched when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, red-eyed and tear-stained. He looked like he'd just come out of a bender. Or an overdose. _That’s exactly what Mitch needs. Rumors spreading about his neurotic drug-addict little brother._

Tearing his eyes away—he still couldn't stand to look at himself, so familiar but _not_ —Stiles cautiously approached the sink and splashed cold water on his face, braced himself on the porcelain as he tried to steady his breathing. When he could take three full breaths again, he forced himself to look up and meet his eyes in the reflection. He had his mother's eyes, the same as Mitch, unlike the cool blue of his father.

"What were you trying to tell me, mom?" He asked himself, as though her eyes held the answers. He couldn't explain it, but in his memories, she didn't feel like the crazed ramblings of a dementia patient. Not now, knowing what he knew. But he couldn't imagine his mother knew about the Nogitsune. She couldn’t have.

Even still, at the end, if felt like she was talking to it. Like she knew it would possess him, and see his memories.

Stiles cupped his hands under the faucet, drinking down some water. There was pressure pounding behind his eyes, the beginnings of a migraine. He sighed; that was just par for the course, wasn't it?

***

When Stiles shyly made his way back to the office, avoiding the eyes of everyone who looked at him, there was a pitcher of water and a tray of cut fruit waiting for him. He looked up to see Sean watching him with concern, mouthed 'thank you', and got a worried smile in return. Sean went back to his work, whatever he did, and Stiles poured himself a glass of water. It was blissfully cold, and he didn't realize how thirsty he was until he'd downed two and a half glasses, panting after all but trying to drown himself. He tried taking a cantaloupe cube to nibble on, but that only made his stomach flip with nausea, so he avoided the fruit.

Stiles walked over to Mitch's desk, rifling through the drawers until he found what he was looking for; a bottle of painkillers, half-empty. As he shook two of the little pills out, he wondered if Mitch got migraines as often as he did, too. Running a company like this, Stiles wouldn't be surprised. He had to be dealing with an ungodly amount of pressure every day. 

Waiting for the painkillers to take effect, Stiles went to lay down on the couch, closing his eyes against the too-harsh light of the building.

 ***

Mitch rubbed his eyes, willing away the migraine that had been bothering him for the last twenty minutes. As if that ever worked. Unfortunately, he couldn't just pause the meeting to go get the painkillers waiting in his desk; the investors were already feeling insulted enough just by him making them wait to see him. Never mind that they had barged into the building with full knowledge that he wouldn't be available, refusing to make an appointment and demanding he come in during his day off.

"You're bleeding," Geralt said suddenly, stopping his partner mid tirade.

"What?" The man gestured to his face. Mitch rubbed his hand under his nose, and it came away streaked red. That was never a good sign. "I think it's time we take a break," he said calmly, standing, daring them to challenge him. "We can continue this in fifteen minutes."

Mitch left the conference room, Geralt staying behind to silence the protests of his fellow investors. He was truthfully the only one of them Mitch could stand, the rest of them nothing more than greedy bastards who refused to let him do his job.

He made his way across the building, having to keep wiping away the blood as it continuously dripped down his face. He was sure he made quite the sight, if the way his employees kept looking at him was any indication.

"Mr. Rapp, we need to—Jesus Christ, did one of them _punch_ you?" Sean asked, standing up and coming over to get a better look.

"No." Although he would have preferred that to the petty arguing he's been dealing with nonstop for the past two hours. Mitch was itching for a fight. "I just got a migraine, it's fine."

"Here, before you get blood everywhere. We just had the floors waxed."

"Thanks," Mitch said, accepting the handkerchief Sean handed over. "What were you saying?"

"It's your brother. I think he had a seizure or something, I don't know."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I'm sorry, sir, he told me not to bother you. He seems okay now, thank God. I was about to call an ambulance when he finally woke up, but I spent probably five minutes trying to wake him."

"I'm going to go check on him. And Sean—next time, call me."

"Yes, sir."

Mitch walked into the office to find Stiles asleep on the couch, his face scrunched up unhappily and tucked into his shoulder, trying to hide from the light. He ran his fingers through Stiles' hair once, before pulling his hand away and draping his jacket over him. It was the leather one that Stiles seemed to have an affinity for, latching onto it and pulling it close even in sleep. It made Mitch smile a little.

He was still concerned for Stiles, but there was nothing he could do, for now. The best thing would be to let Stiles sleep, regain his strength.  

Mitch went to get two pills from the bottle Stiles probably left on his desk, then drew the blinds closed and turned off the light on his way out so that Stiles wouldn't be bothered by it any longer.

"Keep an eye on him for me," he told Sean, before heading back to his meeting.

***

The second time Stiles woke up in Mitch's office was much more peaceful. He laid there for a few minutes, wrapped in warmth and the familiar scent of his brother's woody cologne, before slowly opening his eyes. He sighed in relief when he noticed the lights were off, and realized Mitch must have come to check on him after he fell asleep. The thought made him smile as he pulled the jacket up higher, feeling like a werewolf as he nosed at the collar to get more of his brother’s comforting scent. 

Closing the blinds was a nice touch, too. Stiles felt safer knowing that no one could see him, curled up on the couch like a child after a nightmare. He supposed that’s exactly what he was. 

At least he didn't have any dreams or memories this time, only a pleasant, quiet darkness. Non-oppressive. Stiles pet the supple leather of Mitch’s jacket, trying to parse through what his mother had been trying to tell him all those years ago. 

Stiles was still in the process of getting up, not fully awake yet, when Mitch walked in. He clearly tried to be quiet so as not to disturb Stiles, probably figuring he was still asleep.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Mitch asked when he saw Stiles' eyes open, giving him a tender smile.

"Dunno. Okay, I guess."

"Sean is pretty sure you had a seizure earlier. Was it another panic attack?" Stiles nodded, hiding his face in Mitch's jacket. "What was that?" Mitch asked, unable to make out Stiles' mumbling.

"'M not very good with heights, apparently," Stiles said, louder. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned, turning onto his back to look up at his brother. Mitch leaned against the back of the couch, watching him carefully. "How'd the meeting go?"

"Not as well as it could have, but everything got resolved. And it only took four and a half short hours,” he said sarcastically. Stiles sat up straight, his head aching from the jolt of movement. 

"Shit, what time is it?"

"Your bedtime, apparently." Mitch grinned at the weak glare Stiles gave him. "After five. Come on, let's go home."

"Great idea." Stiles yawned again, then let Mitch pull him up, handing him back his jacket with a mournful sigh.

"Make sure you send me all of the paperwork we went over," Mitch told Sean when they passed by his desk.

"Sure thing. Goodnight boss. It was a pleasure to meet you, Stiles."

"Good night," Mitch said, Stiles hollowly echoing the sentiment with an awkward little wave.

"He seems nice," Stiles said once they were in the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall.

"Yeah, Sean's a good kid. What?" Mitch asked when Stiles scoffed, smiling a bit.

"'Kid'. He's like four years younger than you."

"I'm an old soul," Mitch said sagely, making Stiles huff a quiet laugh.

"Sure you are." 

Stiles felt his stomach lurch when they reached the ground floor. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hid behind Mitch, comfortable in his brother’s shadow. He didn’t like the way people watched him, judged him. He could practically hear their thoughts. What was someone like _him_ doing with the CEO? He wasn't even worth the cost of the wax they used to polish the floors. He was a worthless kid somewhere he didn't belong, yet again—

"Hey, what's going on in there?" Mitch asked once they were in the car, tapping Stiles temple to get his attention. Stiles shrugged, slumping against the window.

"Nothing. Just really tired. Earlier took a lot out of me, I guess." The way Mitch scowled at him reminded Stiles of how Claudia looked at him in his dream, like she was staring straight through into his soul. When Mitch turned his attention to driving them back to his apartment, Stiles was left thinking about the familiar color of Mitch's eyes, wondering if maybe he knew what Claudia had been trying to say all those years ago.

But of course he didn't, Mitch hadn't even known her after she got sick. Stiles hadn't known he'd had a brother until he was possessed and forced to relive his worst memories of his mother, towards the end.

***

The drive back to the apartment was fraught with tension, and this time Stiles knew it was his fault for being standoffish and antisocial out of nowhere. He wished they could go back to how they were earlier, when they were spending time together, having fun, listening to Gio’s stories of simpler times. But then Mitch had to go to work and Stiles had a breakdown, because he could never have one, really good day. Something always had to go wrong and ruin it.

Back home Stiles retreated to his room without a word, kicking out of his ratty shoes and jeans in favor of more comfortable sweatpants, then curled up in bed with his phone.

That lasted for about half an hour before he got guilty about shutting Mitch out. He got up and shuffled out into the living room, expecting Mitch to be in the office like usual. He was pleasantly surprised to find him on the couch with his laptop, legs crossed under him and looking strangely… soft. Domestic. Less tense now that he was home at least, like a werewolf in their den.

"Mind if I join you?" Stiles asked, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. Mitch looked up from his laptop and smiled.

"Of course, c’mon."

"Thanks." Stiles walked over to curl up on the far end of the overstuffed couch, humming as he sank into the soft cushions. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but Mitch was definitely a creature of comfort, and Stiles was glad for it. He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic tapping of keys next to him, soothed by the repetitive sound.

Stiles didn't even realize he'd dozed off until Mitch was prodding him awake, frowning. The laptop was closed and sitting abandoned on the coffee table.

"Hey, what's up?" Stiles drawled.

"I'm worried about you. You’re either sleeping too much, or not sleeping at all. It’s not normal."

"I'm a teenager," Stiles deflected, defensive.

"Don’t give me that bullshit. Tell me the truth, Stiles; what the hell is going on with you?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't make me call your dad." Stiles grit his teeth, because that wouldn't go well for any of them. He was supposed to be in New York getting better, and if his dad found out he _wasn't_ he would take it as a reason to bring Stiles home immediately. That was the last thing he wanted. But he didn’t know what to tell Mitch. 

"Back in California, I had… some problems. With sleep. Really bad insomnia, I guess, sometimes I would go days without sleeping at all," Stiles said, trying to find a way to sanitize the truth, to reveal enough that Mitch would leave him alone, but not enough that his brother would think he was insane. "And now, I dunno, it's like I'm catching up on all that missed sleep. My body probably just needs to get used to a normal circadian rhythm again, and when it’s as messed up as mine was, that can take weeks."

Mitch looked like he knew that wasn't the whole story—of course there had to be more to it than those very vague details, Stiles wasn’t having debilitating panic attacks and nightmares over nothing—but he must have realized it was the best he would be getting out of Stiles because he relented. "Alright."

"Can we watch a movie?" Stiles asked to change the subject. Mitch gave him a long look, and sighed. Pushing didn’t work this morning so it wasn’t likely to work now. He reached across the coffee table to grab the remote and tossed it to Stiles. 

"What do you have in mind?" He asked. 

"Star Wars?"

"Sure."

Halfway through the movie, Stiles played with the hem of his shirt and asked, "Why did you agree to let me come here? You didn't even know me. You don't." The question has been haunting him for months. Mitch had no reason to accept Stiles’ crazed request sent in the middle of the night during the height of a manic episode, when his only thought was _get out get out get out._

"I don’t know. I thought… I knew you were going to do something stupid if I didn't.”

Stiles shook his head in denial. "You couldn't have known." Not when Mitch didn’t know what happened to him. Mitch might have gotten the right answer—Stiles was in danger of making a very big, reckless mistake if he hadn’t agreed—but he used the wrong formula, and it didn’t add up. 

"I had a feeling,” Mitch hedged, not look at him. 

"Seems like you get a lot of those." Mitch was too perceptive when it came to Stiles’ panics attacks, always seemed to know when one was about to start, or when Stiles was having a nightmare. No one back home, except his dad, had been able to figure out how messed up Stiles really was, yet Mitch was able to figure him out inside of two weeks. 

"What do you want me to tell you, Stiles?"

"The truth would be nice."

"I was worried about you. That’s it. No, we haven’t known each other a long time, but in your messages you sounded pretty damn messed up. And I figured it’s what mom would’ve wanted. That’s why I let you come here. I wanted to try and help you, but you won’t let me.”

Stiles scowled down at his hands. He didn’t know what to say. If he told Mitch the truth, he had no doubt Mitch would send him straight back to California, not wanting to put up with his obvious insanity. And why shouldn’t he? Stiles knew how impossible it sounded. _Hey, I got possessed by a thousand year old fox demon, which was created by my best friend’s semi-girlfriend’s mom in a fit of vengeance during World War 2. Then I had to watch my friends kill the demon inhabiting my body, while slowly dying in a replica host it spit me into. I tried to kill my dad and all my friends, half of whom are werewolves, which is the only reason they survived. Oh and I’m pretty sure mom knew about everything that was going to happen years before it did!_

Yeah, that was sure to go down well. Stiles would be lucky if Mitch didn’t outright laugh in his face. 

“You _are_ helping me,” Stiles said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah, clearly,” Mitch scoffed. 

Stiles didn't have a response to Mitch’s doubt. It was justified, after all. From his perspective, Mitch probably thought Stiles was getting _worse._ But he hadn’t been there in California when Stiles wouldn’t even get out of bed, would spend days staring at the wall. He wouldn’t eat, couldn’t work up the energy. The only thing that kept him from letting the hunger kill him was the knowledge of how devastated his father would be; one night his father came into his room, crying because Stiles was killing himself, and he finally broke. 

The next night Stiles sent Mitch an email begging to come stay with him. 

Stiles got off the couch after the movie ended—he completely missed the last half, lost in his thoughts—and went to stand in front of the window. The sunset was beautiful.

"I tried to kill myself," Stiles said to the horizon, his back to Mitch. "I wasn't sleeping, I was strung out, and I just… it seemed like a good idea at the time. So I went to the hospital and almost jumped off the roof. I stopped myself at the last second, but there was a moment where I just… all I could think about was that I could finally _rest."_ Stiles looked over his shoulder at Mitch. Part of him was darkly satisfied at seeing his brother’s open shock. He must have known Stiles tried it at some point, but it was different to hear him admit to it. 

Stiles wrapped his arms around himself, aching for a hug but needing distance for what he was about to say. “That feeling you get, when you’re standing over a cliff and feeling the urge to jump. It’s a survival mechanism, a way for your brain to remind itself that it wants to live. So you feel the impulse, and then you jump back instead, but I didn’t.” 

Mitch stood, slowly approached Stiles the way he might approach a frightened animal. Stiles didn’t retreat, didn’t try to hide himself away, because Mitch asked for the truth. Stiles already bared his body to him, he may as well bare his soul. 

“After Allison… I didn’t know what to do. I feel like I should have been able to save her, like if I’d just done more, if I’d been stronger, it would have been me instead of her. It should have been me.” Stiles turned into Mitch’s embrace, couldn’t deny himself this time. This was something he hadn’t even told his father, or Scott, or Argent. Allison had been so strong, so full of life, and Stiles was weak. He became the kind of monster her family was trained to kill, and instead the Nogitsune had killed her. What did it matter that he wasn’t the one holding the blade— _this time_ —when he was the one that released the Nogitsune in the first place?

Stiles surprised himself by not crying. Maybe he didn’t have any tears left to spare. It sure felt like he’d hit his lifetime quota. To his credit, Mitch comforted him with touch rather than words. Maybe he knew that nothing he could say would be enough to combat the mountain of blame Stiles routinely buried himself under. 

Having someone to lean on helped. Stiles couldn’t lean on his dad like that, couldn’t put all of his guilt on him because John would try to take it, carry it for him. Mitch was different. He cared because he wanted to, not because he had to, or had any obligation. They weren’t _family._ As much as Stiles loved his dad, Mitch could help him in ways John never could.

"I'm not actually suicidal,” he mumbled eventually, once he was able to speak past the knot in his throat. “You don't need to worry I'm going to kill myself or something, because I'm not. I was just going through a lot back there, and I didn't know how to deal with it, and—and—"

“I know.” Mitch rubbed the back of Stiles’ neck. Relief melted the tension away; knowing his shame—even just a fraction of it—didn’t taint the way Mitch touched him. He didn’t pull away like Scott or Lydia, or look at him the way his father did. Mitch was as sure and steady as ever. “I get it. Not exactly, but I know what that kind of guilt feels like.”  

Stiles nodded against his neck, even though he didn’t quite believe him. Mitch had no idea what it felt like to know you were the sole cause of a friend’s death. 

"God, I’m sorry for spilling my guts all over you like that,” Stiles said a few minutes later. “The last thing you need to deal with is my bullshit teen angst." He tried to pull away but Mitch wouldn’t let him.

"That's what family’s for, right?" He asked, thumbing a stray tear off Stiles’ cheek. “I’m glad you told me. Talking helps.” 

***

"Can I _please_ come stay with you?" Mitch begged for the millionth time, knowing what the answer would be. He didn't know why he bothered to keep asking; it broke him a little more each time he was denied. 

"No, no, it's not safe for you here. You need to stay far away."

"What? Why?"

"It's not safe. The demon, he's here, he wants to hurt you, but I won't let him. I won't let him touch my boys."

"Mom...?"

"No, get away from me! Get away!" Claudia sounded far away, like she lost the phone, screaming like a banshee. "Stay away from here, Mitch! Do you hear me? Stay away!" 

Claudia's voice faded as she was dragged away. Plastic scraped over gravel as the phone was picked up, and a man on the other end of the line spoke. "Hello?"

"What's happening to my mom?" Mitch asked desperately. 

"You’re Mitch," the man said. His voice was heavy, weary. "Of course. Claudia is very sick right now. Dementia, the doctors are saying. She spends more time than not ranting about monsters and demons."

"Is she going to be okay?" The phone’s casing creaked under his hand from how hard Mitch clutched it.

"I hope so."

"Can I come see her?"

The man hesitated. "I don't know. Your mother, she's... not the same. She might not even recognize you right now. I'm sorry, son."

"Don't call me that," Mitch snapped, and hung up the phone. He needed to get to California, find some way to see his mom. It wasn't fair that everyone was keeping him away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> I don't think I'll be updating Monday. I can't focus on the next chapter right now, it needs to be rewritten and I don't have the time or energy for it. I'll try, but I have 5 essays and 4 finals next week, and on Monday in particular I have to put my dog down, so...
> 
> Edit: 12/11/19 I'm having some serious writers block for the next chapter. If there's anything you're dying to see, comment with scene ideas lol, they might make their way into the fic. I have about 2k worth of plot figured out, but I need at least 5k before I can post. Now is your time to influence the author!


	11. Interference

A knock sounded on the door in a harsh staccato. Stiles paused the movie and hopped off the couch. “I’ll get it,” he said. They were waiting on takeout; Stiles had gotten a craving for Polish food and wore Mitch down to ordering in, and he was  _ starving.  _ “That was fast. I’ve actually only had pierogis that mom made, I hope these are good.”

“Stiles, wait—” Too late. Stiles didn’t so much as pause on his way across the apartment, ignoring his brother. He opened the door and was greeted not by dinner, but instead by a man wearing an ill-fitting charcoal suit with a badge hanging from a chain around his neck. Behind him were two more men in blue uniforms—Stiles still wasn’t used to that. It put him on edge. 

“Uh, can I help you?” He asked dumbly. Stiles tried to reconcile the cops with recent events, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out why they were there. Or why the man in front, the one in the suit with several days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw, was eyeing him up. 

“I hope so, son,” the man said. He stepped close enough for Stiles to smell his breath; the bitter nicotine scent of a chronic smoker. Stiles almost gagged. “I’m detective Nelson. The man who lives here, is he in?” 

“I don’t—” Stiles shifted to hide his body partially behind the door. He didn’t like the way Nelson was looking at him, like Christmas came early. Stiles looked over his shoulder in time to see Mitch coming over, his expression stormy.

“Get away from them, Stiles,” Mitch ordered. He put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pulled him away from the door, taking his place before the three men had a chance to try and enter. He put his arm out when Nelson tried to push past, his fingers wrapped around the doorjamb. Stiles noticed his knuckles were white with how hard he gripped it. “What do you want?” Stiles reeled back at the harsh tone in his brother’s voice—he’d never heard so much contempt from him before, and hearing it directed at  _ cops  _ made an odd feeling settle heavily in his stomach. 

“Mitch, long time, no see,” Nelson said with a barely concealed sneer. Rebuffed, he was forced to take a step back, or else things were going to get physical. Stiles looked over Mitch’s shoulder to see him trying to recover by puffing out his chest. “It’s detective now, actually.”  

Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb. Even dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants, it was clear who was the top predator between Mitch and Nelson. “Forgive me,  _ detective. _ ” 

_ What’s his problem?  _ Stiles scowled at Mitch’s back. This was not the brother he’s spent the last three weeks with. This was the stranger that had Stiles convinced he was a hitman the first night they met, cold and calculating, very clearly  _ pissed  _ that there were cops on his doorstep again. Stiles may not know what’s going on, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think this was in any way a normal situation; cops don’t randomly show up at people’s houses. 

“May we come in?” One of the cops asked. A younger man than Nelson; he looked fresh out of the Academy. Deferring to his senior rather than addressing the inappropriateness of the situation, as Nelson had yet to identify what they were doing there. 

“No.” 

“Now, Mitch,” Nelson chided. A parent scolding an errant child would sound less condescending. “There’s no need to make this more difficult than it has to be. You’ll let me in one way or another; either now, and we make this quick, or I can come back with a warrant. That wouldn’t look too good for a man of your standing, now, would it? Especially not this time of year.” 

“You couldn’t get one if you tried.” 

“I can if I have probable cause.” Nelson made eye contact with Stiles and smirked. “And I would say I do. Who’s your friend here?”

Mitch shifted to the left to block Nelson’s view of Stiles and said, “None of your concern.” 

“I’d say it is my concern, when I hear my favorite criminal’s got some kid staying with him. Why don’t you tell me how that sounds?”

“Go to your room, Stiles.” Stiles startled at being so coldly addressed. Even he knew it wasn’t a good idea to show conflict in front of police—especially when he didn’t know their angle—so he did what he was told. It was detective Nelson who stopped him. 

“I think he’s fine right where he is. You don’t look so good there, son. Are you okay?” 

Stiles glanced uncertainly at Mitch. “Yes?”

“You don’t sound too sure about that.” 

“I was better before you showed up to ruin my night,” Stiles snarked, standing up straighter. Mitch snorted. 

Irritated, Nelson said, “Last chance to let us in now, or this is going to get very messy for all of us. Now is not the time to call my bluff, Mitch; I think you know I’m fully willing to follow through.” 

Mitch also looked fully willing to slam the door in his face, and Stiles didn’t want to deal with more of a hassle than they needed to. As much as he hated to admit it, Nelson was right; it would be simpler to just get this over with. 

When Mitch straightened, poised like he was about to tell Nelson where he could shove his threats, Stiles put a hand on his brother’s back to soothe him. Mitch hesitated, tense, then sighed. He acquiesced and pulled the door open wider, stalking away to let the officers in. Stiles followed after him, twisting the edge of his sweater. When he realized the nervous tick he forced himself to stop. 

“You’ve got five minutes,” Mitch said, taking up a defensive position by the bar. Stiles stood apprehensively to his left. The two officers stayed near the front door—probably in case one of them tried to make a break for it—while Nelson took a seat on the couch and reveled in making himself comfortable, spreading himself out like he was perfectly at home. Mitch looked remarkably like a wolf who’s den was just invaded. If Stiles hadn’t already ruled out the possibility, he’d be waiting for the claws to come out. 

“I’ll take as long as I need, thank you.” To Stiles, he held out a hand and said, “Come over here, son, let me get a good look at you.” He raked his eyes all over Stiles’ body, lingering too long on bitten-short nails and raw fingertips, and Stiles was acutely aware of what he saw; a skinny, neglected kid with a beaten down slump to his shoulders and bruises under his eyes. “It’s you we’re here to see, after all.”

“I’m good over here, thanks.” 

“Don’t be contrary, I just have a few questions for you.” 

Stiles reluctantly left the safety of his brother’s company, perching on the arm of the couch, as far away as he could get from Nelson. “What do you want?”

“Mitch called you Stiles, right?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a name.”  _ What does he think I am, a damn pet?  _ Stiles wondered. It wasn’t like Mitch was the one to make his name up. 

Glaring at the detective, Stiles said, “Actually, it’s  _ Mieczysław, _ ” in a thickly accented tone. He smirked when Nelson only blinked at him. 

“Let me see your hand, Stiles,” he said, recovering. “It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.” Stiles hesitated, then reached out, cringing when Nelson pushed up his sleeve to reveal the purple bruise around his wrist. There was a match to it on his other arm from where Mitch had to restrain him during his nightmare, keep him from hurting himself. Nelson must have noticed it when Stiles’ sleeve rode up when he opened the door. “That’s a nasty bruise. Did Mitch do this to you?”

“It’s not like that.” Stiles jerked his hand back with a glower. Nelson gestured for him to try and explain himself. Stiles stubbornly kept his mouth closed, knowing there was no good explanation he could give. Something along the likes of  _ Oh yeah, I get debilitating nightmares and Mitch has to hold me down to keep me from hurting myself or others. No, officer, I  _ can’t  _ tell you why I have nightmares. But if I tell you it’s not ‘cause of Mitch will you promise to leave him alone? Oh, you’re going to arrest him for suspected abuse and put me under involuntary psych evaluation because I obviously don’t know how bad my situation is?  _ Yeah, right. 

Anything Stiles said would only be twisted to use against Mitch, and he wasn’t going to give this bastard anything more to work with. Seeing that Stiles wouldn’t respond, Nelson put on a condescending mask of concern. 

“It’s never like that,” he said with false sympathy, acting like he understood. Like Stiles was a  _ victim.  _ It didn’t matter how Stiles looked, how the situation looked, he  _ wasn’t.  _ He was more than that. Thanks to Mitch, he was finally getting  _ better _ . “How long have you been staying here, Stiles?”

Stiles held his arm to his chest like it was wounded. “About three weeks.”

“And what is your relation to Mitch here?” The way Nelson asked it, he expected to catch Stiles out in a lie, or something. And Stiles realized that’s exactly what he wanted. Stiles knew how he looked, and clearly Mitch had some history with this guy. It had to be beyond suspicious for Stiles to turn up out of nowhere, looking like a victim of something terrible, when not even Mitch knew he had a brother out there. It wouldn’t take much to make Mitch look like any other twisted rich guy, throwing his money around to sate his less-than-socially-acceptable desires, and paint Stiles as the hopeless trafficking victim. He already looked the part. Except Stiles wasn’t some random stray Mitch had picked up. This time  _ he  _ had the upper hand in the conversation. 

Stiles looked at Nelson defiantly and said, “I’m his brother.” The reaction he got was not one he expected. Or wanted. Rather than backing down—Mitch didn’t need to defend himself against letting family stay with him—Nelson once again lit up with delight. Just like that, confusion replaced Stiles’ momentary confidence. 

“Are you now? That’s interesting, I don’t remember him having any other family.” Looking at Mitch, he added, “Mommy wasn’t such a saint after all, was she?”

“You fucking—”

“I never said we shared a mother,” Stiles said, cutting Mitch off, holding his arm out to keep Mitch from coming forward and giving Nelson a much needed ass kicking. Claudia was as much a trigger for him as it was for Stiles, but Mitch had the quicker temper. Stiles knew he just derailed any plot Nelson thought he had. The last thing he wanted was for Mitch to get arrested for assaulting an officer. He was willing to play the long game, if he had to, and swallow down his momentary disgust that Nelson was so quick to slander their mother.

“I know his father wouldn’t have been unfaithful. Robert was a good man.” Mitch scoffed behind him. Stiles looked at Nelson incredulously; Mitch already told him the whole reason his parents got divorced was because of Robert’s infidelity. 

“You’re delusional,” Stiles said, his eyebrows raised. Nelson bristled. 

“Now you listen here, young man. I don’t know what lies your brother has told you, but Robert Rapp was an upstanding man of the community, and his murder was a tragedy.”

“Murder?” Stiles made the mistake of looking back at Mitch. His jaw was clenched and he wouldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles thought his father’s death was an accident.

“Oh, Mitch didn’t tell you? He killed his father,” Nelson said nastily, callously accusing, “Remind me, it was for the money, wasn’t it?”

“Prove it,” Mitch spat. 

“Mark my words, one of these days I’m going to.” Nelson slid his eyes back to Stiles, that infuriating smile curling his lips. Stiles slowly inched away, hating the way the detective looked at him like he was a piece of meat. “Then again, I don’t necessarily have to get you for murder.” 

Stiles saw the exact moment Mitch realized what the detective was implying. The color left his face, his features drawn and washed out. He finally closed the space between them and pulled Stiles away from the detective, Stiles gratefully retreating with him. “Get the fuck out,” Mitch demanded, keeping Stiles behind him, out of Nelson’s reach.

“Why, have I hit a little too close to home?” Stiles hated how smug Nelson sounded, like they were right where he wanted them. Hated feeling like they were being  _ maneuvered,  _ “Don’t go too far, Stiles, I’m not done with you yet, and I’m not leaving until I have what I came here for.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles said. “I don’t care about your vendetta, just leave us alone!” 

Rather than leaving now that he’s exhausted his welcome, Nelson sat back on the couch and leisurely crossed his legs. “Don’t worry, Stiles, I won’t let anything happen to you. You can tell us what’s really going on.” The two officers from before—they’d stayed by the front door, until now—came forward. Stiles grabbed Mitch’s wrist, afraid they would try to take him away.

“What do you want from us?” Stiles’ hands shook from fear and impotent frustration that there was nothing he could do. 

“The truth. Sooner you give it to us, the sooner this will all be over. And if your brother tries to get violent, he will be detained,” Nelson said meaningfully. “We’ll keep you safe.” The false concern left a bad taste in Stiles’ mouth. Detective Nelson didn’t give a damn about his safety, he just wanted to nail Mitch. Already he was doing a great job in riling him up; Stiles tightened his grip around Mitch’s wrist to keep him from doing something regrettable. Mitch twisted his hand to lace their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. 

“Just ask your damn questions, then,” Mitch demanded. One of the officers took a step forward and Mitch sent him a scathing look. “Touch me and I’ll have your badge by morning.” 

“Everyone settle down,” Nelson said. He held his hand out, gesturing for the officer to stand down; the man uneasily did so, his hand straying too close to his holster for Stiles’ liking, before he dropped his hands to his sides. To Stiles, Nelson bluntly asked, “Has Mitch ever touched you?”

“No! Jesus Christ, he’s my  _ brother. _ ” Stiles felt nauseous that Nelson would even imply that Mitch was  _ molesting  _ him, when Mitch had only been kind to him. “He would never hurt me, or anyone else for that matter. Mitch is a good man, unlike you.” 

“He’s a good liar, you mean. It’s alright, I don’t blame you for falling for it; many people have. Someone in your… position, never stood a chance.” 

“I swear to god, if you’re about to say I have fucking Stockholm Syndrome—”

“Do you think you do?” 

“No!”

“Alright,” Nelson agreed easily. Too easily. “Although victims don’t always know that’s what’s happening to them. It could take a lot of therapy to see that he’s gotten into your head.” 

Stiles laughed. It was a bitter, harsh sound, and Nelson lost his smug attitude. Mitch looked at Stiles like he finally lost his mind, but Stiles has never felt more sane. There was no one but him in his mind. Whatever detective Nelson thought he knew, he wasn’t even scratching the tip of the iceberg as far as Stiles’  _ head  _ was concerned. 

“You really need to leave, right now. I have nothing more to say to you.” Nelson must have noticed the change in Stiles’ demeanor, realized that he was done playing around. The detective stood and straightened his too-small jacket and left a business card on the table that Stiles intended to shred as soon as he left. 

“Please don’t hesitate to reach out, should you need anything, Stiles.” 

“What the kid said; get the fuck off my property and don’t come back without a warrant.” 

“I’ll be seeing you boys.” 

Mitch broke away from Stiles finally—he tried to pull Mitch back, thinking he was about to start throwing punches—and followed the three officers to the door to gleefully slam it behind them. “ _ Fuck,”  _ he said under his breath, leaning against the door with his back to Stiles. 

Stiles waited long enough for Nelson and his lackey’s to have reached the end of the hall, before demanding, “What the  _ fuck  _ was that about?” 

“Not now, Stiles.” 

“ _ Yes  _ now. Detective douche there just accused you of murdering your father! What the hell!” Mitch was angry, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care. He needed  _ answers,  _ was tired of his brother not giving them to him. Stiles could look past the bruises and the sneaking out, but this? This was next fucking level. “Cops don’t just randomly accuse people of patricide, Mitch!”

Mitch stalked away from the door, steadfastly ignoring Stiles, and went to pour himself a drink. He looked like he needed one. Stiles  _ felt  _ like he needed one.

There was another knock on the door and Stiles stormed over, prepared to give detective Nelson the verbal lashing he deserved if he’d seriously come back to cause more trouble.  “What?” Stiles all but shouted, yanking open the door. There was a delivery boy standing on the other side, mouth gaping like he didn’t know what to say in the face of Stiles’ misplaced ire. 

“I have your order?” He offered sheepishly, holding the bag up defensively. Stiles cringed.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day. Give me one second.” Subdued, Stiles ducked back into the apartment to scrounge up some money. 

“On the counter,” Mitch told him. Stiles found his wallet and took out some cash—definitely too much—then returned to pay for their food. “Keep the change,” he said, thrusting the cash at the boy in exchange for dinner.

After kicking the door closed and carting their food over to the coffee table, Stiles sighed, raked his hand through his hair, and asked, “Can I have some?” He gestured towards the glass of bourbon Mitch held. After that clusterfuck, getting plastered sounded like a great idea.

“You won’t like it,” Mitch responded. He tapped the side of his glass thoughtfully, then apparently decided he was amoral enough to give a teenager alcohol, and poured some into a glass for Stiles. About a quarter of the amount he’d poured himself. He joined Stiles on the couch and handed him the glass. “Are you okay?” He asked softly. 

“Not really.” Stiles swirled the drink in his hand, looking down at it glumly. He tossed it back, the alcohol burning his throat as he swallowed; Mitch was right, he didn’t like it. “Did you actually kill your dad?” Stiles didn’t think he had—not from everything he’s learned about his brother in the last 3 weeks. But he needed to hear it. A look of hurt flashed over Mitch’s face, making him appear younger, vulnerable.

“Do you think I did?” Stiles shook his head. Mitch rubbed his face, like he was trying to scrub away a painful memory. “ _ Detective  _ Nelson has been trying to pin my father’s death on me since I was a teenager. Trying to make a name for himself, I guess, it was a pretty high profile case. It was also an  _ accident. _ ” 

“What happened?” Stiles prodded. He believed Mitch, he did, but he wanted to know the full story. Knowing the details was the only way he could protect himself from people like detective Nelson. 

“I don’t know.”

***

He was lost in an unfamiliar part of the city. It was dark, with streaks of light binding the world in colorful ribbons. The disorienting sound of car horns blaring, followed by muffled shouting, made him startle.  _ Where am I?  _ Hazy vision made it impossible to identify anything around him.

When Mitch rubbed his eyes his hand came away sticky and red. 

“Oh God, what…?” 

_ What did I do?  _ Mitch stared down at his bloody, trembling hands, and couldn’t remember. There was a blank void in his mind, the memories barely out of reach, wisps of smoke fading through his fingers. It felt like there was a bell tolling in his head; every beat of the brass sent out a deafening echo.

Red and blue flashing lights pulled up in front of him. The squad car parked and an officer got out, standing behind the door. Mitch wrapped his arms around himself and shied from the officer keeping his face turned away. The strobing lights blinded him, each flash a needle of hurt pricking into his eyes, making a pincushion out of his brain. 

“Are you alright there, son?” The officer called out. Mitch stopped in his tracks. He shook his head and instantly regretted it—he was going to be sick.

Mitch waited for his equilibrium to stabilize while the world tilted around him. He was certain the ground was swaying under his feet; he didn’t know how he stayed standing. Once he was steady again, he said, “I don’t know where I am.” His voice was hoarse. Throat scratchy and parched, like he’d been screaming. “What happened? I—how did I get here? Where am I?” He had been at home. How did he get so far away?

“Easy there. Why don’t you come over here, let me help get you back where you need to be.”

The officer started coming forward and Mitch collapsed, his hands clenched in his hair. The sounds of the city were deafening. The pounding in his skull got worse. Heavy, oppressive, inescapable; it made him want to  _ scream.  _

“Stop,” he whispered, pleading, folded forward in a pale imitation of supplication. It didn’t matter how small he tried to make himself, he couldn’t escape. “Make it  _ stop _ .” Salty tears dripped onto the cement beneath him, fresh blood smeared down his mouth and chin. Mitch didn’t even realize he was crying; he couldn’t make himself stop once he did. 

Mitch didn’t notice the officer approaching until he was hauled to his feet. The sudden movement disturbed Mitch’s tenuous equilibrium again, made him nauseous. He was blind, couldn’t make out the officer’s features clearly, could barely hear him. 

“Dispatch, I’ve got him. I’m bringing him in,” the officer said to his radio. “I think we’re gonna need an EMT to check him out.”

“Did I hurt someone?” Mitch looked down at the blood on his hands and couldn’t  _ remember.  _

“I don’t know,” the officer answered honestly. He took Mitch by the arm and led him back over to the squad car, and put him in the back. At least he wasn’t handcuffed. The thought wasn’t that comforting when all Mitch could smell was cherry-scented cleaner.

At the police station Mitch was taken to an interrogation room and left there with a bottle of water that he didn’t touch. He couldn’t stop staring at himself in the mirror, hollow-eyed and streaked with blood. It was rusty red and dry, flaking off his skin in places. Mitch rubbed his cheek and looked down at the table. 

After a few minutes, a woman in a blue EMT uniform joined him. She had red hair and a kind smile that Mitch didn’t return. “How are you feeling?” She asked. 

“I dunno.”  _ Numb.  _ Mitch flinched away when she shined a flashlight in his eyes, managing to croak, “Too bright,” before burying his head in his arms with a pitiful groan. 

“Does your head hurt?”

“Yeah.” 

“You may have a migraine.” Mitch nodded. This was worse than any migraine he’d ever had before, worse than the multiple concussions he’d gotten from lacrosse. 

_ Poor kid, he looks miserable.  _

“Why am I here?”

“They tell me someone saw you wandering the streets covered in blood, pretty out of it. Someone called it in, and an officer picked you up.” The woman checked his pulse—rapid, despite the fact he’d done nothing but sit for the last five minutes—and felt how cold his skin was. “You’re in shock.”

“Okay.”

“Drink your water.”

“Okay.” 

The woman left, and was replaced by a mean-looking officer. He had stony green eyes and a bushy mustache, a few days worth of stubble. The man sat down across from Mitch and stared at him appraisingly. 

“Mitch Rapp,” the man said. “I’m officer Nelson. You’re in a world of trouble, young man.”

Mitch dragged his eyes away from the mirror, meeting the officer’s eyes unflinchingly. The world lagged around him like he was two steps behind. By the time he registered what the officer was saying his lips had stopped moving. “Why?” 

“Your father is dead, and so far as we can tell, you were the only one at the scene.”  _ You selfish, greedy son of a bitch.  _

“ _ What _ ?” Mitch asked. Nelson sneered at him. 

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think I did.” 

“Playing dumb isn’t going to help you. We have witnesses that reported you fleeing the crime scene covered in your father’s blood. We have motive, as well. You wouldn’t be the first person to murder their father for an early inheritance.” 

“What? No!” Mitch’s mind was reeling—his father was dead? No, that wasn’t right. They’d just been talking, only an hour ago. “I want a lawyer. My father’s lawyer, Julian Grey—”

“Mr. Grey as already been contacted. I’m afraid it will be some time before he can get here, as he was out of the city. Until then, I have some questions I would like you to answer.  _ Truthfully. _ ” 

Officer Nelson opened up a notepad to begin reading off questions, when another man opened the door so hard that it slammed into the wall. The cacophony it caused in the almost-empty room was agonizing. 

“Nelson, leave the kid alone,” the new officer ordered. “He just lost his father, for God’s sake, show some respect.”

“He killed his father, you mean,” Nelson spat back. 

“Get out of here right now, or so help me, I’ll have you suspended.” 

Nelson stormed out, and the new officer took his place. He was a kindly looking older man, a little like Santa Claus, with a full white beard and bushy eyebrows over denim blue eyes. “How are you doing, son?” The man asked him. Mitch shrugged.

“My dad’s dead,” he echoed, listing back in the uncomfortable metal chair. Mitch looked at his hands—clean, now—and wondered why he wasn’t in handcuffs. “And you think I did it.” 

“No, I don’t. The coroner’s report most likely won’t be in until tomorrow, but it is very clear that you did not do that. But that can wait; right now, I want to find out what happened to you. What can you tell me about tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Mitch racked his brain, but every pulse of his migraine scrambled his thoughts. “I… my dad pulled me out of school early. He needed to tell me something and it couldn’t wait, but I—I don’t….” He frowned, feeling like he  _ needed  _ to remember what his father told him. It was important. 

“That’s alright. What happened after you got home?”

“We fought, I guess. Yeah, I’m pretty sure we were arguing.” They were arguing a lot lately. Mitch’s shoulders slumped. “He was going to send me away.” 

“Where did he want to send you?”

“Some boarding school in Virginia. His girlfriend wanted him, to get rid of me.” Mitch rubbed his eyes; God, how could they expect him to even think clearly? “Can I get some aspirin, or something? My head’s killing me.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” the officer promised. “Tell me about your father’s girlfriend.”

“Her name’s Audrey—they just got engaged, today, too. I think? Or maybe a few days ago, but my dad told me today.” One thing managed to break through the fog in his mind. Dread gripped Mitch’s heart, made it skip several beats. “What’s going to happen to me, now? Is she going to get custody of me?” He was only 16, he couldn’t go off by himself. With her latest mark dead, there was no way she would let go of Mitch without a fight; he was her last chance at access to his father’s account. 

“Easy there,” the officer soothed, putting his hands up. Mitch wasn’t an anxious animal, and he wouldn’t be calmed with the gesture. “No, unless they were actually married, Audrey has no claim to you, don’t worry. Your parents are divorced, then?”

“Yeah.” Mitch forced himself to take several deep breaths. “My mom lives in California.” 

“Alright, then we’ll work on contacting her and getting you all sorted out.” 

“Okay….” Mitch gave the officer his mother’s contact information, and the man left him alone. As the door closed behind him, Mitch couldn’t help but feel a door had been irrevocably shut to him. 

Hours later Robert Rapp’s attorney, Julian Grey, walked up the stone steps of the 19th precinct, and requested access to his client’s son. The call he got was troubling; Robert was dead, and Mitch was currently being held by the police. Apparently he witnessed what happened, but claimed not to remember. Julian was on vacation in Miami with his wife, but didn’t hesitate in catching the first red-eye back to New York. His wife would meet him back home once she got their belongings and transportation squared away.

Mitch was still being held in an interrogation room, if only because there was really nowhere else to put him until someone came to collect him. The teen was slumped over on the table with his head on his folded arms, sleeping fitfully. Julian walked over, preparing to give him the worst news since his parent’s divorce was finalized. 

“Mitch,” he said softly, putting his hand on Mitch’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shake. He whimpered, turning to hide his face. Julian thought he could just make out Mitch saying something like ‘it hurts’. Julian frowned. He hadn’t been made aware of any injuries. “Mitch, wake up.” 

“What time is it?” Mitch asked when he picked his head up, squinting at him. Julian checked his watch and answered. 

“Almost two in the morning. What do you say we get out of here, kiddo?” 

Mitch nodded his agreement. The relief at finally getting to leave was palpable; Julian wished he could have gotten here sooner. Mitch listed and stumbled when he stood before gaining his footing. 

At sixteen years old, Mitch was already six feet tall, putting him at eye level with Julian. Having to look Mitch in the eye made what he had to say even harder. He knew no one had told him yet, and it wasn’t fair, after what he’d already lost tonight. But Julian thought it best for Mitch to hear it from him. 

Julian felt like he was always the one giving Mitch bad news. He also liked to think it was softened by the fact that he tried to do it kindly, and was always there for him after. Julian was there the day Claudia signed over custody, was the one to comfort Mitch when she left. God knows Robert wasn’t up to the task. That never changed in the years after the divorce, either. 

“Am I going to stay with my mom now?” Mitch asked quietly. There was a desperate kind of hope in his eyes. 

“Mitch…” Julian began. “I’m sorry, but your mother passed away this evening.” 

Julian expected Mitch to collapse and break down, to scream at him that it wasn’t true, to demand to see proof. He did none of those things. Mitch only nodded, like some part of him already knew, and said nothing. A cold, quiet acceptance as the light left his eyes. 

***

John picked up his cellphone and frowned at the unfamiliar number. It wasn’t uncommon, but most people called the station before his work phone. The area code was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t remember what region it was from. Not local, that was for sure. “This is Sheriff Stilinski, how can I help you?” 

“Hello, Sheriff, my name is detective Eric Nelson, with the NYPD.” 

John sat up straighter, his thoughts immediately going to Stiles. “What can I do for you, detective?”

“Are you aware your son is staying with a murderer?” 

***

Stiles believed Mitch when he said his father’s death was an accident. That didn’t stop him from doing his own research, though. Not because he doubted his brother, but because he wanted to be armed with information if detective Nelson came back around. Knowledge wasn’t his only defense, but oftentimes it was his best. Knowledge is what allowed him to maneuver around everyone else, to gain the upper hand in any situation.

When he started looking, Stiles... was not prepared for what he found. 

Robert Rapp’s death was indeed not something that a sixteen year old could have committed, and that was putting it lightly. According to comments by the police department, it was some freak brain hemorrhage that claimed him. His brain was practically liquid by the time the coroner got to him. Hemorrhagic fever was briefly a theory, ruled out only because they could find no trace of any of the known fevers—and thank god for that, because the last thing they needed was a CDC quarantine on their hands—but the effect was disturbingly similar. 

_ God, and Mitch was there when it happened.  _ He couldn’t imagine witnessing something like that. Having his father be perfectly fine one minute, then start bleeding from his eyes, nose, and ears. The official cause of death: he drowned in his own blood. 

All in all, it wasn’t the most disturbing thing Stiles had heard or witnessed in recent history, but it was pretty high up there. 

After that, reports covered exactly what Mitch already told him. He was taken in by his father’s lawyer, Julian Grey, because Claudia died on the same day. Right before Robert. It was only a matter of  _ hours.  _

_ Now that’s a disturbing coincidence.  _ And Stiles didn’t believe in coincidences, not like that. Not after his world was so drastically changed.  _ Everything keeps coming back to mom… _

Before Stiles had a chance to explore that avenue further, his phone sounded off with police sirens. 

“Hey dad, what’s up?” Stiles answered absentmindedly, opening up a new article. Apparently rather than make a name for himself, Nelson was disgraced and ridiculed for telling the press Mitch was the prime suspect in his father’s death. He was even suspended for it.  _ Good fucking riddance.  _ They should have taken his badge. 

“You need to come home.”

“What? Why?” Stiles shoved his laptop aside, his heart rate skyrocketing. Immediately his thoughts turned to the worst; someone had been hurt—or worse, killed—while he was away, fucking  _ finding himself _ . He should have stayed in Beacon Hills. “What happened, is everyone okay?”

“Yes, everyone here is okay, it’s you I’m worried about. Sending you to New York was a bad idea—you’re not safe there.” 

“Dad, what are you talking about? This is probably the safest I’ve been in months.” As far as he knew, there was no Nemeton hell-mouth drawing monsters to Manhattan, and even if there was, there were plenty of packs in the city to deal with it. The millions of people around him meant Stiles could blend into the background and let someone else handle any oncoming supernatural threats, and he didn’t leave the apartment enough to worry about human dangers. 

“Are you alone?”

Given that he was in his bedroom, “... yes?”

“I want you on the first flight out of there, do you understand me? I’m booking you a ticket right now.”

“No, I don’t understand! What happened, why don’t you think I’m safe?”

“Because of Mitch!”

“ _ What? _ ” Stiles mentally ran through what his father said and couldn’t come up with a single reason as to why he had anything to fear from Mitch, and he sure as hell couldn’t divine why his father might think so.

“Dammit, Stiles. Stop trying to argue with me and just do what I say! Pack your things and get ready to call a cab when I tell you to.” 

“No, hang on, back up; why the hell wouldn’t I be safe with Mitch?” It wasn’t like the guy killed anybody— _ oh god.  _ “Dad, who called you?” 

“What?”

“Someone called you, didn’t they? Was it detective douchebag Nelson?”

“Yes…” Stiles heard a distinct pause in his father’s frantic typing. “How did you know?”

“Jesus Christ, because he came over and was harassing us today! The guy is totally insane, whatever he told you, don’t believe any of it. He tried to say I was a sex trafficking victim, for god’s sake, he totally has it in for Mitch. Believe me when I say he can  _ not  _ be trusted.” 

“I don’t know, Stiles… I’m really not comfortable with you being there any longer.” 

“ _ Dad.  _ I’m safe, I promise.” Stiles bit his lip; he didn’t want to say anything to hurt his father, and he knew his would, but he needed to make himself clear. “I really haven’t felt this safe in a long time, dad. I’m doing good here. And I’m coming home in a few weeks anyway, so just… just let me stick it out, okay?” 

“Stiles….”

“If you don’t believe me, call the NYPD! Call in a professional favor or something, ask to see the files. But I know Mitch didn’t do it. He’s a good guy, dad. If I didn’t really,  _ truly  _ believe that, I’d have already called you to book me the first flight home. You know how paranoid I am, I’d never stay here if I thought there was something going on,” a white lie, “and I’ve spent the last two hours doing my own research on what happened. There’s now way it was Mitch. As soon as you look at the files yourself, you’ll see he’s innocent.” 

“You sound pretty convinced.” 

“Because I know I’m right.” John knew Stiles didn’t trust easy; his first two weeks or so of misguided paranoia where Mitch was concerned was proof of that. Stiles has always been able to spot the bad apples, willing to dig until he found proof. Despite all of his digging when it came to Mitch, there was no proof to find. 

John sighed. Stiles knew this was a difficult decision for his father to make. It was almost too much to ask for him to rely on Stiles’ judgement, trusting that he knew how to keep himself safe without being there to personally verify that Mitch was as good a man as Stiles was claiming. Finally, he said, “I’m going to trust you here. But I’m also going to call the NYPD and request the files, and review them myself. If I find anything even  _ remotely  _ questionable, you’re coming home immediately.” 

“Deal,” Stiles eagerly agreed, knowing his dad wouldn’t find anything. 

“... Are you absolutely  _ sure  _ about him Stiles?” 

“Mitch watched him die. He was sixteen, dad.” Stiles said softly. He glanced at the door. “It was the same day as mom.” 

“Ah, hell…” Stiles heard the grit of nails over skin as his dad scratched his jaw. “Alright. I trust you.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“I’m still requesting those files, though.” Stiles smiled fondly. 

“I know. Get me a copy? I’ve only had access to news reports.”

“Not a chance.” Stiles shrugged; it was worth a shot. 

***

If Stiles had any lingering doubts about Mitch, they disappeared after being the one to defend him. Stiles would never defend someone he didn’t truly, one hundred percent believe in. That only left one more thing for him to do.

Stiles kicked off the covers and went to Mitch’s room, hoping he wouldn’t find his brother drinking himself to an early grave. After the stressful evening they had, with the added bonus of dredging up horrible memories, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised to find him at the bottom of a bottle. God knows he’s found his dad there often enough.

Instead he found Mitch going through that old box from the top of his closet, flipping through the printed photographs. Stiles wondered how long it’s been since Mitch saw them; the layer of dust on the top was thick with neglect when Stiles got to it before. If Mitch noticed the box had been disturbed, he didn’t say anything about it. 

“I just had to talk my dad off the ledge,” Stiles said to announce his presence, leaning against the door. “Detective Nelson apparently gave him a call, he wanted to bring me home immediately. I think he was expecting me to sneak out so you wouldn’t know; which, given my history of a complete and utter lack of stealth, we both know that would be impossible.” 

“What did you tell him?” Mitch asked solemnly. He wouldn’t raise his eyes to look at Stiles. Rejection was easier to take when you didn’t have to face it. 

“That there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you,” Stiles said with reckless determination. Mitch looked up at him, his eyes widening a bit in surprise. Stiles crossed his arms, and, just to be sure there would be no more surprises, asked, “Is there anything else I should know about?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“No potential blackmail material? Addictions? Gambling problems? Unacknowledged children?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“Good, then I can stay in good conscience.” Stiles nodded, and that was the end of it. 

“Thanks.” Mitch gave Stiles a wan smile. He saw Stiles peering curiously at the dusty box in the middle of the bed and beckoned him over. Stiles accepted the invitation and joined Mitch on the bed, crossing his legs. “I guess you’ve never seen these before,” he said, handing Stiles one of the stacks of photos. Stiles didn’t correct him, not wanting to break this tenuous trust. Just like before, he was careful to touch only the edges, so he didn’t damage the irreplaceable photos. 

Mitch went through the photos with him, telling him the stories behind each one. Those that he could remember, anyway. There were a few short years, between about six and nine, where things seemed perfect.

“Did you ever love your dad?” Stiles asked softly. He had gradually moved closer until he was fully leaning onto Mitch, head resting on his shoulder. Claudia must have taken the picture he was holding. He couldn’t have been more than four or five years old, being held on his father’s shoulders and laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“Must have,” Mitch sighed, thumbing the edge of the picture. “But not for a very, very long time.” Stiles knew the hardest part of divorce for a child had to be seeing the worst come out in their parents. In an effort to protect himself, Mitch must have put everything on his father, and all but elevated Claudia to sainthood.

Mitch set the photo aside and Stiles picked up the velvet bag of runes he found before. “What’s this?” He asked, pouring them out on the bed like he didn’t know exactly what they were. He didn’t want to touch them again. 

“I dunno, they were mom’s, I guess.” Mitch flicked one of the polished stones. “I figured they were like those decorative stones people put in bowls on coffee tables, or something.” 

_ Or mom was actually a real life witch who used them for divination,  _ Stiles thought.  _ What were you up to, mom? _

The night had been hectic enough without trying to unravel that mystery. Part of Stiles wanted to keep digging, but the other part, the one that wanted to spend time with Mitch and take a moment to recuperate from this latest shock, set the mystery aside for another day. Carefully, he gathered up the runestones back in their bag—taking extra care not to touch them, not wanting to suffer another flashback in front of Mitch, who was putting up with enough of his crazy bullshit already—and laid it carefully back in the box. 

They continued to leaf through the photographs until they fell asleep against each other, and Stiles dreamed of nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the final week now, updates should come daily! I still have to write the last 3 chapters, but I think I'll have them all done in time to finish Christmas day!


	12. Thanksgiving

From: Kira

_ Hey Stiles, It’s me. Kira. I got your new number from Scott, but idk if you have my number, so yeah.  _

_ I’m going to be in New York in a few days to see my grandparents for break, do you maybe wanna meet up?  _

_ No pressure! Only if you want to, and I get it if you don’t, we barely even know each other lol but I thought it would be fun to catch up and get to know each other better?  _

_ Scott said you’re having a hard time (SO sorry if that was TMI, I didn’t ask, not that I’m not concerned! But I wasn’t trying to pry or anything) and we could totally stay in if you wanted, or I know some cool places we could go. _

_ Anyway, lmk?? _

Stiles smiled as he scrolled through his new texts. Kira was the only person to reach out to him first since he got his new phone—not that he blamed any of his friends, they all had their own lives—and he respected a girl who had no care at all for multi-texting. Getting out of the apartment for a while with a friend seemed like the kind of thing Mitch would encourage. It would be good for him. 

To: Kira

_ That’d be awesome, we should totally work something out  _

_ I’m sick to death of being inside, let’s do something cool  _

The response was almost immediate, despite the texts having come hours ago. 

From: Kira

_ Awesome!!!  _

_ It’s gonna be so much fun I can’t wait! _

***

Going out with Kira would also give Stiles a chance to do some light Christmas shopping. At least, he thought it would be light, since his dad only gave him a few hundred dollars before he left California, and he would have to factor in shipping costs. But before dropping him off to meet Kira at the mall—their first stop of the day—Mitch gave him one of his credit cards and told him to have fun. Stiles was distressed. 

“What does that mean? Mitch?  _ What does that mean? _ ” 

“Jesus, relax, it’s not like I’m entrusting you with the nuclear launch codes.” 

“You can’t be vague like that, man. If you’re gonna give me this I need, like, an actual hard limit.” 

Mitch rolled his eyes and made shooing motions with his hand. “Just don’t buy anything that requires legal documents. Other than that, go wild.” 

“This is causing me significant stress, man.” 

“It shouldn’t.” Mitch looked like he really couldn’t fathom why Stiles didn’t want to be unleashed on the city with a potentially unlimited amount of money to burn. Which, fair. Stiles should be ecstatic since it wasn’t  _ his _ , but that just made the situation worse; he didn’t like spending other people’s money unscrupulously. “Look, you said you wanted to go Christmas shopping for your friends; go do that. It’s not like I’m going to.” Right. Mitch didn’t exactly have a plethora of people to buy gifts for. This way, it was like he was using Stiles as a substitute for his own holiday spending. Which was actually really sad, if Stiles thought about it too much. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive. Now get out before I get a ticket, I don’t like the way that cop is watching me.” 

“Okay. Thanks Mitch.”

“Have fun,” he repeated, grinning at Stiles’ exasperated eye roll. Stiles got out of the car headed towards the big Christmas tree at the front of the mall. Kira noticed him and came running over, bundled up in a jacket and scarf and smiling brightly. 

“Stiles, hey! Was that your brother?” 

“Yeah.” 

“He’s super cute.” Kira blushed, putting her hands over her face. “I mean…” 

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, I know. It’s totally unfair; clearly he got all the good looks in this family.” 

“You’re cute, too,” Kira defended, because she was a sweetheart like that. Stiles shrugged off the compliment and held his arm out to her, Kira eagerly linking their arms. 

“Lead on! Let’s go raze the city.”

“Yes! This is going to be so much fun.” 

***

Because Kira was the  _ most cool,  _ they hit Gamestop first. Stiles wasn’t anywhere near up on the newest games—not that it mattered, since almost nothing came out for the Xbox 360 anymore, and he didn’t have the money to splurge on anything newer—but he liked looking through the games and yearning. 

“Wanna have a girl’s day and talk about boys?” Stiles asked while he perused the back of  _ Death Stranding. God, I really need a PlayStation, this looks awesome.  _ Out of the corner of his eye he caught Kira blushing and smirked. 

“Well…. Are there any boys you have in mind?” Kira tried to deflect. “Or girls, I guess? You have a crush on Lydia, right?” 

“I used to.” Stiles shrugged and put the game back. “That’s ancient history though. And there’s no particular boys, either.” How could there be, when the only person he’s really been around is Mitch?

“O-oh….”

Moving in for the kill, Stiles asked, “How’s Scott, by the way?”

“He’s fine….” Knowing she was well and truly caught, Kira shot him a sheepish grin. “I don’t know, things are weird. Like, I really like him, and I think he likes me too? But we’ve only really known each other a few weeks, and that whole thing before you left….” 

“Yeah.” Stiles’ throat clicked painfully when he swallowed. “I mean, I get it. It’s a really fucking weird situation to be in. But I also know Scott likes you too. Even before—before Allison… he likes you. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

“We went on a date last week. An actual date,” she said, and Stiles gratefully latched onto the distraction. 

“What’d you do?” 

“You’re going to think it’s silly…” 

“Come on, try me. Whatever it was, it can  _ not  _ be worse than my attempts at wooing Lydia sophomore year.” 

“I heard you were pretty bad,” Kira agreed, and Stiles shrugged like  _ what can you do? _ “We made a pillow fort in his room and watched Disney movies. And made popcorn and stuff. It was really nice.” 

“Wow, that’s… hm.” Kira hit his chest and Stiles burst out laughing. 

“I told you it was silly!”

“Are you kidding? That’s  _ adorable.  _ That’s a god-tier date, right there, I love it.” Stiles couldn’t help thinking back to the evening he and Mitch spent sharing a blanket on the couch and binging Netflix together. It wasn’t quite a pillow fort, but it was still warm, nice.  _ I can’t even remember the last time I made a pillow fort.  _ He and Scott must have been twelve? Thirteen? “This one time Scott and I tried to make his whole room into a pillow fort. We couldn’t get anything to keep the blankets from slipping, ‘cause we had no counterbalance I guess? And I had just gone camping with my dad, so I thought, hey, what we need to do is tack them down like a tent.” 

“ _ No, _ ” Kira gasped, already able to guess where this was going. 

_ “Yes.  _ We got a toolbox from the garage and nailed the blankets to the wall.” God, Melissa was so pissed when she came to find out what all that hammering was. She called John over and Stiles was  _ terrified  _ of the scolding that was sure to come. Instead, the night ended in laughter, with John and Melissa piling into the fort with him and Scott, because the deed was already done, they may as well enjoy it before tearing it all down. 

“That’s amazing. My mom would have killed me!”

“Trust me, I thought we were dead meat. I guess dad promised to patch up all the holes, though, and we got to repaint the walls, which was super cool. I think it was supposed to be a punishment, but it just led to me begging my dad to paint my room next for a week.”

“Have to see the silver lining,” Kira agreed. 

“Exactly. Wow, I am so sorry for taking over the conversation like that.” 

“It’s okay. I want to hear about this stuff.” She knocked their shoulders together, smiling. “I want to be your friend.” 

“Me too,” Stiles said sincerely. It would be nice to make a new friend. 

***

Stiles ended up buying a funko pop and a new video game for Scott, remembering his best friend bemoaning his inability to buy it until months after it’s release. Neither of them shelled out for new games on release or following day, as much as they wanted to; they were too expensive. 

“What should I get for Derek?” Stiles asked as they walked through the mall. He made sure to keep himself between Kira and the shop windows; if she noticed him using her like a human—or badass kitsune, rather—shield, she didn’t mention it. 

At least the decorations were pretty; a cascade of amber Christmas lights hung from the glass-paned ceiling, making them look like stars against the backdrop of the cloudy sky. In the middle of the mall was a huge Christmas tree full to bursting with ornaments and tinsel, fake Christmas presents piled underneath. In front of it was a snaking line of parents waiting for their children to meet Santa.  _ I wonder what Mitch asked Santa for as a kid.  _ He needed to find a good gift for his brother, too, but he had no idea what Mitch would like. His home was too impersonal to guess. 

“I dunno. Would a squeaky toy be too far?” 

“ _ Kira, _ ” Stiles gasped in delight. “That’s it, you’re my new best friend.” 

“Aw, Scott will be heartbroken.” 

“I’m sure he’ll have you to comfort him.” She elbowed him good-naturedly. “I’m serious though. I want to get him something, but he is literally  _ impossible  _ to shop for. What do you get for the guy who could buy himself anything, but wants nothing?”

“Maybe a sweater?” Kira suggested. “Or like, a really soft pajama set. Bunny slippers? After the whole kitsune reveal thing, Scott bought me these fluffy fox slippers, and they’re the best.” 

“That’s cute. Derek is pretty grumpy, maybe something soft and fluffy is exactly what he needs.” 

Because he’s sick, Stiles bought a lucky rabbit’s foot from a hunting shop. He also found a deep purple sweater that reminded him of one Derek wore once—red, with  _ thumbholes,  _ it was adorable—and bought that as well. 

***

After trawling around the mall for a few hours, Kira deemed it time for lunch. Stiles wasn’t hungry, but eagerly agreed because he could use a break from the crush of holiday shoppers; although Kira was acting as a pretty fantastic buffer against the horde. 

“Ooh, can we get sushi? I know this one place that’s amazing, and I haven’t been in forever. Well, not since I moved to California, anyway, but it feels like forever.” 

“Hell yeah, sushi time! Do we need to take a cab, or should I call Mitch to drive us, or…?” Actually, that wouldn’t be a great idea. Mitch’s car only had two seats, and he didn’t want his best friend’s girl sitting on his lap through New York traffic. And Mitch probably wouldn’t be able to drive all that well with Stiles sitting on  _ his  _ lap. 

“Oh yeah, but don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Kira said, waving off his concern. “I used to hop taxi’s all over the place, it’s a piece of cake.” 

“Thank God; I have no idea how that monster works. I have successfully managed to avoid public transit and the anxiety it brings.” 

“You’ve been here how long?” She asked incredulously. 

“Umm, like three weeks? Give or take? And anyway, it’s easy to avoid when you don’t go anywhere. I’ve pretty much kept to the apartment like a gremlin.” 

“Guess we better eat before midnight, then, we don’t want you turning into a green goblin.” Stiles high-fived her. “But if you’re serious about the transit-anxiety, I could probably call my grandma to drive us? Or we could get something from the food court. Let’s just do that, we’re already here, anyway—”

“Hey, no, we can go to your sushi place,” Stiles insisted. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Scout’s honor.” Stiles nudged Kira when she still didn’t look convinced. “Come on, you were excited. Let’s do it. But it better be the best sushi I’ve ever had to make it worth the mental health tax,” he said with a wink. 

“It’s literally the  _ best.  _ Their wasabi’s gonna blow your socks off.” 

“You know, Mythbusters actually did an episode about that.”

They headed outside and true to her word, Kira managed to hail a cab within a few minutes. Stiles wasn’t overly fond of the strong smell of cherry cleaner and cigarette smoke—and he was pretty sure it was old vomit making the floor sticky—but he didn’t mind too much. Kira kept him distracted with a steady stream of chatter, telling him all about the places she used to go when she lived here before. 

***

“Okay, this is pretty damn good,” Stiles admitted around a California roll. They got four half rolls to split, along with two bowls of miso soup that was perfect for the cold weather outside. The heavy clouds finally started drizzling as they got into the sushi bar, and they managed to snag a table by the windows so they could watch the rain. 

“Told you!” Kira picked up a roll with a truly insane amount of wasabi and pickled ginger. Stiles’ mouth burned just watching her. “Have you been to any cool restaurants? Beacon Hills is pretty small, but New York’s got some awesome indie places, if you know where to look.” 

“Mitch took me to this place called Giovanni’s? I didn’t tell him because his ego does  _ not  _ need stroking, but the pizza was  _ life changing. _ ” Kira laughed into her green tea. Stiles was left to share her infectious smile and wonder what was so funny. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s just,” she snickered, wiping her nose off with a napkin. “Remember when Malia was still a coyote, and she came to the school? And I was in the locker room because I was trying to find you guys to give you back your backpacks, and she was after that doll?”

“The creepy baby from hell? Vividly.” Stiles would never get that nightmarish laugh out of his memory. He shuddered just thinking about it. 

“Well, after that, my dad invited Scott over for dinner. And didn’t tell me! So that was great. Did Scott ever tell you about that?”

“No he did not.” Stiles leaned in, eager for details. “Tell me everything.” 

“I mean, not a lot happened, but my dad made sushi because he wanted to impress Scott—I know,” Kira said when Stiles snorted in disbelief, ”I couldn’t believe it either, I wanted to  _ die.  _ Anyway, that did not go as planned, so we ended up getting pizza instead. You just reminded me of that.” 

“Amazing. Scott actually used to be allergic to shellfish before he got turned. We got California rolls once when I was in my japanese food phase, and it about killed him! I’m surprised he was willing to touch it again even with the supernatural healing factor.” 

“Oh god,” Kira groaned, putting her head in her hand. “I feel so bad now. Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Because he  _ like  _ likes you,” Stiles teased. “How’d he handle the wasabi?” 

“ _ Badly.  _ He ate all of it. He thought it was guacamole.”

“Yes! Oh man, I wish I could have been there.” 

“It was pretty funny.” 

***

“What should we do next?” Stiles asked after lunch. It was still drizzling out, but the incoming storm clouds were definitely gearing up for something much bigger. Idly, he wondered if Kira had anything to do with it, being a thunder kitsune. Could she actually control the weather, or just occasionally absorb lightning unscathed?

“Hm… want to get ice cream?”

“It’s like forty-degrees and raining,” Stiles said. “I absolutely want ice cream.” He was probably going to regret it later, but if he spent all his time worrying about the future he would never get out of bed. “It’s gotta be something cool, though, and the pun is absolutely intended.” 

“Ooh, you know those scroll ice cream videos on Instagram? Or liquid nitrogen ice cream!” 

“That sounds awesome, let’s do it.” Stiles pulled out his phone to look up a place, and found an idle text waiting. 

From: Mitch

_ How are you doing?  _

Stiles smiled warmly, tapping out a quick reply. 

To: Mitch

_ Really good. I’m having fun : )  _

From: Mitch

_ Good _

_ Text if you need anything  _

To: Mitch

_ I will <3 _

Stiles looked at the little heart emoticon, pausing with his thumb over ‘send’. He hit the backspace twice to erase it and sent the text. 

“Who’s that?” Kira asked. 

“Just Mitch checking up on me. Last time I went out without him… didn’t end so well.” That was the simple way of explaining his complete nervous breakdown, anyway. 

“Oh. Do you want to ask him to come along, too?”

“Nah, he’s probably busy,” Stiles said, too quickly. Was it bad that he wanted to keep Mitch to himself for a little while longer? “Besides, he doesn’t know about the  _ grr  _ stuff yet, and I like not having to catch myself before saying something incriminating. And we’re having a pack-of-two day.” 

“Pack-of-two,” Kira snickered. “I think you mean army of two.”

“Yes! Now you’re speaking my language.” Stiles held his hand out for a fist bump, using the other to continue his search for an ice cream parlor. “Okay, I’ve got a place about half a mile away? What do you think, shall we brave the rain, or take our chances with questionably sticky taxi seats?”

“Let us brave the rain,” Kira said solemnly. “I think we should be able to avoid most of it if we keep against the walls.” 

“Sounds like a plan, let’s do it.” 

***

“We should do a pack secret Santa. Do you think we could make that a thing?” Stiles asked. Not many people were in the ice cream parlor, leaving him free to make a fool of himself exhaling steam like a dragon while Kira recorded short videos for Instagram. The pack had steadily been keeping up with them all day, popping in occasionally to like their posts and leave some comments here and there. Stiles’ heart warmed whenever he felt his phone buzz. After weeks of silence, it was a welcome change. 

“I think that could be fun. You’re coming home for Christmas, right?” 

“Yeah, I think my flight is like the 16th?” 

“Awesome, that will give us time to arrange something. We’ll have to plan that out.” 

“Hell yeah.” Stiles was still going to try and buy something for everyone—easier now that he had a day to go wild with Mitch’s bank account—but it would be nice to mix it up. It was about time the pack started to have some traditions. 

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving tomorrow?” Kira asked. “Is it just going to be you and Mitch?” 

“Thanksgiving’s  _ tomorrow? _ ”

“Yeah? That’s why I’m here, it’s Thanksgiving break.” Stiles completely didn’t realize. Without having to go to class every day he could barely keep track of what day it was, let alone what holidays were coming up. Mitch didn’t say anything about the date either, but there was no way he didn’t know about it; his company was certain to be closed for the day.

“I had no idea,” Stiles exhaled. 

“Oh. Well, if you wanted, you and Mitch could come over and spend it with us?”

“No, I—thanks, but I don’t want to take up anymore of your family time. We’ll figure out something to do.” Stiles laughed a little bit. “I’m gonna kick his ass, he should have said something.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t like holidays,” Kira suggested. Stiles had a feeling she was right, but not for any reason she may be thinking of. What was there to celebrate when you grew up without a family to celebrate with? 

***

They went back to the mall after thoroughly wearing themselves out, ready to go home. Kira’s grandparents came to pick her up, and they kindly waited with Stiles until Mitch showed up fifteen minutes later. They hugged and said their goodbyes, and Kira once again offered for them to come over tomorrow evening for dinner—which had Mitch looking guilty, and yeah, Stiles was not going to let those kicked puppy eyes sway him. 

“So,” Stiles drawled once they were in Mitch’s car. Perfect, because that meant his brother had no escape. He dragged out the word until Mitch gave him a suspicious side-eye. “Turkey day is tomorrow.”

“Is it?” Mitch asked with false innocence. 

“Uh-huh. Don’t even try to play dumb with me.” The confined space of the car keeping them trapped in traffic was probably not the best place to ask, but Stiles did anyway. “How come you were trying to avoid it?” 

“I don’t do holidays,” Mitch said with forced casualness. “Haven’t had a reason to.” 

Stiles tentatively reached over to touch Mitch’s arm, making him look over. He offered a soft smile. “Well, now you do.” 

“... Okay.” 

“We need to go to the store,” Stiles announced. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it  _ right.  _ Stilinski-style.” 

***

In hindsight, going to the grocery store the night before Thanksgiving was one of the worst ideas Stiles has ever had. 

“Now I get why dad always wants to do this a week in advance,” he groused, using Mitch as a shield, letting him push through all the people. It was pure, unadulterated chaos, people searching for last minute items they would need for the morning. There was a frazzled grandmother wearing a flour-covered apron, and a man trying to corral his children as they tore through the bakery section, asking to get anything and everything. “It’s like the  _ Hunger Games. _ ”

“Shut up, no it’s not. What do you want to get?”

“Turkey, obviously. Maybe just a turkey breast since it’s only the two of us?” That was the first item on the list, since it was probably the first thing to be picked over. Mitch was surprisingly picky, but eventually found one to his satisfaction. “Obviously you’ll be doing most of the cooking, mister culinary-major-wannabe.” 

“I’m never telling you anything ever again.” 

“Sure. We need croissants. The quick pop ones. Ooh, and we need a pie. Pumpkin is the classic, but apple is also really good.” 

Mitch fessed up that he preferred cherry—or Boston creme, but not for Thanksgiving—so they compromised by getting three small pies to split. 

“We need potatoes,” Mitch said.

“What kind?”

“Russet.”

“Roger roger.” Stiles branched out on his own, figuring he could brave the masses for the five minutes it took to find a bag of potatoes. He had a mission and he wouldn’t be distracted from it. “Are those cranberries?” Stiles asked when he got back, lugging the 10 pound bag of russets into the basket. Mitch raised his eyebrows a bit at the amount, but didn’t say anything. A wise choice; Stiles wasn not playing when it came to his potatoes.

“Yeah, I was thinking I could make some cranberry sauce. Did you drink all the orange juice?”

“Noo…”

“Did you do that thing where you leave less than a cup so you can pretend you didn’t drink all of it?” Mitch asked flatly. Stiles grinned sheepishly. 

“Maybe.” 

“Go get more.”

“Yes, sir.” 

This was going to be so fun. Stiles couldn’t wait to spend the morning cooking so he could spend the afternoon and evening carbing out. If there was one thing that not even his nightmares were able to stand against, it was a tryptophan coma. 

***

Stiles roused to the feeling of Mitch shaking him. He looked like an angel, it by the morning sun. “Wake up, you’re going to help me.”

“No,” Stiles groaned, burying his face in his pillow. He was just having an amazing dream, but already it was slipping through his fingers. He could barely remember what it was about. “Said you would do it.”

“I did  _ not. _ ” 

“Did though.” Stiles peeked over the edge of his bed and found Mitch poorly concealing a smile. 

“You’re the one that wanted to do this, now get your ass out of bed.”

“ _ Fine. _ Ugh, you’re so demanding.” 

“I know, it’s terrible.” Mitch gave him one more shove before leaving him alone, shouting one last time from the kitchen, “Get up!” 

Stiles buried his smile in the pillow, feeling giddy and stupid for no good reason. He couldn’t help it; he loved Thanksgiving. Every year him and his dad and Scott and Melissa piled together to spend the day cooking and watching movies and spending time together. It was a day for family. Mitch deserved that, to have that kind of warmth in his life. Stiles wanted to be the one to give it to him. 

He rolled out of bed, stretched, and trotted out to the kitchen, clapping his hands together. “Are you ready for this? Turkey day is no joke on a normal year, and this, my friend, is no normal year! We’ve got a decade of feasts to make up for, and one day to do it. You’re going to need all your strength and fortitude if we’re to pull this off!” 

“Oh my god,” Mitch groaned. He slid a mug of fresh tea across the bar for Stiles, and sighed. He gestured with his own coffee for him to get on with it. “Love the enthusiasm, please don’t burn anything down.” 

“I only did that one time, and in my defense I was ten years old and left unsupervised. There is a reason my dad takes the night before Thanksgiving off every year now.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, Stiles.” 

“Please, I’ve got this.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

First they had to cook the turkey. While it was cooking, Stiles could get started on the prep work for later; the potatoes and croissants and any extra sides would finish quickly, and it wouldn’t make sense to start those until at most an hour before the turkey finished. 

But Mitch had a really nice kitchen, with one of those cool double oven things straight out of a catalogue, and it would be a crime not utilize it to its full potential. 

“We should cook the pies.” 

“Okay.” 

Stiles left Mitch to do the hard work of dressing the turkey breast while he unpackaged the three small pies and loaded them into the top oven. “This is so cool,” he said under his breath. “Hey, do we have vanilla ice cream? You can’t have pie without ice cream.” 

“Shit, that’s what I forgot.” They looked at each other, Stiles scowling in thought. As soon as he opened his mouth Mitch shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. If you want ice cream,  _ you  _ can go buy it.” 

“Come  _ on _ ,” Stiles whined. “We can’t not have it!” It was a dessert staple. There were few things better than hot apple pie with a scoop of vanilla bean melting on top. 

Stiles remembered that convenience store across the street, on the corner. He didn’t do so well last time he tried to strike out on his own. But it would be a short venture, would probably only take him fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Surely he could handle it. 

Stiles played with the key he’d taken to wearing on a chain as he thought about his options. On the one hand, they didn’t  _ need  _ the ice cream. It wasn’t a vital ingredient. On the other hand, leaving for a little bit to get it shouldn’t be an issue. Any regular person would be able to go out just fine without having to deliberate over the decision. 

“I’m gonna go buy some,” Stiles decided. 

“Are you sure?”  _ Mitch  _ didn’t look sure. He had his hands full, and couldn’t exactly escort Stiles at the moment. With his history, Stiles could see why Mitch was apprehensive about sending him out alone, but Stiles was confident he could handle it. It was Thanksgiving; most people should be home, anyway. 

“Yeah, I’ve totally got this. If I’m not back in half an hour,  _ then  _ you can panic.” Not that he thought Mitch was the type to ever panic, but he looked pretty close to it when he found Stiles in the bookshop. Stiles was both pleased and guilty that he could get that kind of emotion out of him. 

Stiles returned to his room to get dressed in warmer clothes, psyching himself up all the while.  _ It’s just down the street. In and out, you’ll be able to see the apartment the whole time, it’ll be fine. Normal people do this every day. There’s no reason to make a big deal out of it.  _ And sue him, but he really wanted to make his dream from last night come true. 

***

Stiles knew it wasn’t real by the dreamlike haze that settled over the edges of his vision. The view outside the window was a blur of city lights with indistinguishable shapes that resembled buildings. Even so, the light streaming inside was warm and soft, like a lazy Sunday afternoon back home. If not for the foggy drizzle outside, he would expect to see blue skies accompanied by warm California weather. 

He sat on the counter and idly kicked his legs, the way he used to do as a child, while Mitch rolled croissants on a baking sheet next to him. The turkey was already done and resting on top of the stove, covered in tinfoil and wrapped in a towel to keep it warm. Homemade cranberry sauce sizzled beside it in a saucepan. On the backburner was a pot of garlic mashed potatoes. The smells in the kitchen were mouthwatering, made the apartment feel warm and inviting for the first time since Stiles got there. It felt like a home. 

Mitch hummed beside him. Music was coming from somewhere, soft notes filtering through the air, quiet enough to not be distracting. When Mitch glanced up and caught Stiles gazing at him, he smiled. “What?”

Stiles’ heart fluttered in his chest; his brother had a beautiful smile. “We should put chocolate in some of them,” Stiles said, nodding at the croissants. Half of them were rolled up, but there was another package waiting to be open. 

“There should be some baking chocolate in the pantry.” Mitch popped open the other package of croissants as Stiles hopped off the counter. He found a container of baker’s chocolate in broken up pieces, and joined Mitch again at the bar. They brushed against each other as Stiles put pieces on the dough for Mitch to then roll up, sneaking a few pieces for himself. It was more bitter than he expected, but sweeter than dark chocolate; it would be perfect against the sweetness of the croissants. Stiles held up a piece for Mitch as well, since his hands were covered in excess butter from the dough, and he took it with his mouth. Mitch’s lips were soft against Stiles’ fingertips, sent a little shock down his arm. 

Stiles took the pies out of the oven to cool and Mitch popped the croissants in instead, then washed his hands. While Mitch had his back turned Stiles cut a small piece of the fresh apple pie for them to share; it was best when it was gooey and melty inside. He put two scoops of vanilla bean ice cream on top, and handed Mitch a fork after he dried his hands. 

***

“See, totally painless,” Stiles announced when he returned twenty-eight minutes later, brandishing the ice cream. It  _ wasn’t  _ totally painless, but Mitch didn’t need to know that. 

“Good job,” Mitch praised. Stiles grinned at him and went to put the ice cream in the fridge—good ol’ Dreyer’s vanilla bean, the best any store had to offer—and briefly retreated back to his room to change back into his pajamas. Thanksgiving was not a day for real clothes; it was meant to eat too much food and laze around like a fat cat, and Stiles intended to honor that tradition to the fullest. 

As an afterthought, instead of leaving his clothes piled in his suitcase the way he’d been doing for almost a month now, he finally shuffled them all into the dresser. His luggage was finally relocated to the closet; one small step in making the guest room feel like it was really his, making Mitch’s apartment feel like it could be his home, too. 

***

Thanksgiving was an overwhelming success. Stiles cajoled Mitch into helping him make way too much food for two people, but that meant that they had leftovers for tomorrow. Mitch didn’t seem to mind the excess, either. 

“You need to eat more,” he commented while Stiles set the table. He didn’t do anything juvenile, like poke his sides to emphasize his point, but that didn’t keep Stiles from blushing self-consciously. 

“I’m lean,” he said defensively. “Always have been, cause I have a high metabolism, and my Adderall messes with my appetite. I’m fine.” 

“Stiles, come on. No you’re not.”  _ I could see your ribs.  _ Stiles knew that’s what Mitch wanted to say, could see his brother physically biting his tongue. He hated how plainly Mitch pointed out that he wasn’t okay—he was dead inside, just waiting for the outside to catch up. A corpse rotting from within. Why did he bother pretending to be alright when Mitch could see right through him? 

Really, the answer was simple: when he first showed up, he didn’t think Mitch would ever care enough to prevent him from believing his own lies. Stiles did appreciate that he cared now, even if it meant drawing attention to show much he was struggling. 

Regardless, Stiles didn’t want to have this conversation today. This was the one day he felt he could really be alright, if only for a little while. He could pretend. It was a good day with good food and good company: what more did he need?

Stiles sighed heavily and brushed off his brother’s concerns. “ _ Fine.  _ I’ll eat a whole pie by myself. No pumpkin for you!” 

“Deal.”

***

True to what he said Stiles ate way too much, and happily waddled over to the couch like a well-fed penguin afterwards, unashamedly leaving Mitch to put everything away. “I’m just here for moral support,” Stiles called with a cheeky grin, patting his stomach. 

“If I knew you were going to con me into doing all the work, I’d never have agreed to this.” 

“I’ll do all the work next year,” Stiles promised. The words left his mouth before he had a chance to hold them back. His ears burned and Mitch paused what he was doing, but didn’t respond. Stiles was grateful. On the one hand, he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep. On the other, he didn’t want Mitch to be alone for yet another Thanksgiving when he  _ should be _ with family. 

_ What about Christmas? That’s a day for family, too, but I’ll be back home and he’ll be alone again.  _ He would just have to double down today, then, and hopefully leave Mitch with enough warm memories that he wouldn’t feel so lonely on Christmas. 

Stiles surfed around Netflix while he waited for Mitch to finish cleaning up, going through the holiday selection. He was pretty sure a Christmas tree would look lovely against the backdrop of the city lights; he would have to see about bullying Mitch into buying one, and some other decorations to spruce up the apartment. Currently the only personal touch it had was the snow globe from the Statue of Liberty sitting sandwiched between a bunch of cookbooks. 

“We’re gonna watch a Christmas movie to get fully in the  _ spirit, _ ” Stiles announced when Mitch finally joined him, hovering over some silly romcom.  _ The Knight Before Christmas.  _ Perfect. 

“Do we have to?” Mitch protested, but Stiles knew it was only for show. He stuck his cold feet under Mitch’s thigh and wiggled his toes to be irritating. Mitch pinched his calf to make him jerk his legs back, but let Stiles toss them over his lap instead, followed by the plaid throw blanket that Stiles fluffed out over them. 

“Yep!” He popped the ‘p’ and hit play.

***

The movie was long over, running the preview on repeat when Stiles woke up. He yawned, feeling surprisingly rested after his impromptu nap. It took him a minute to realize he wasn’t alone on the couch. Mitch was spooned up behind him and letting Stiles use his bicep as a pillow. And he was  _ hard.  _

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered. He shifted a little and yeah, that was in fact Mitch’s dick pressing against his ass.  _ He’s definitely not compensating for anything, Jesus.  _

Mitch was still asleep, Stiles realized belatedly. Shallow breaths ghosted over the back of Stiles’ neck, giving him goosebumps. When Stiles tried to move away a little bit, the arm Mitch had draped over him tightened around his middle, holding him close. Mitch nuzzled his neck with a sigh, and now _ Stiles  _ was getting hard.  _ This is so not happening.  _

There was no way Stiles would be able to look Mitch in the eye after this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so miffed I didn't get this posted on Thanksgiving, you have *no* idea. I hope you guys like this chapter! Stiles get to have another Good Day, and the next chapter is going to be even softer. Slowly things are looking up for him <3
> 
> also, I realized earlier that this fic is basically a very long, very angsty version of the Folgers commercial lol


	13. Indulgence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh!! God, this took forever, this chapter just did not want to end. Total word count ended up at 10k. (Okay, 9,978, but semantics..) It actually would have been longer, but I decided to cut some scenes, although it did break my heart a little bit to do so. One character from a past chapter makes a surprise appearance, and I'm finally getting to introduce my love! Felix is awesome, and for context, I'm imagining him kind of as Billy Porter (specifically with his attitude as Behold in AHS), a little bit like Idris Elba as Heimdall, and a little but like Angela Basset as Queen Ramonda. You guys are gonna love him, he's an Icon. 
> 
> Merry Christmas! I thought about cutting this chapter in half, then I decided fuck it, holiday bonus, you guys get 2 chapters for the price of one!

Mitch wouldn’t let him go. Stiles really didn’t want to resort to waking him up— _ that  _ would be a mortifying conversation to have—but he also didn’t want to stay there; stuck quite literally between a rock and a hard place. Every little shift was an intimate reminder of what was happening behind him. Stiles’ cheeks were so hot, he was surprised his face didn’t burn a brand into Mitch’s arm. 

Stiles reached down to cup himself through his pants, squeezing his cock and willing his erection to go away.  _ Now is not the time, self.  _

_ Now is the perfect time, it’s not like he has to know,  _ whispered that dark part of Stiles’ mind that always sounded too much like the Nogitsune. The suggestion made him feel skeevy; at least it was enough to kill his hard-on, though. Not so much in Mitch’s case.

Stiles almost jumped out of his skin when he felt something like a kiss behind his ear. He had to slap his hand over his mouth to keep from moaning; it felt better than it had any right to, having his brother’s lips brush over that soft crook, making a shiver run down his spine. Stiles pressed his hips back without meaning to.  

“Mitch?” Stiles whispered. He got no response; his brother was still fast asleep. Stiles didn’t know what time it was, but no light streamed through the big picture window. 

Mitch shifted his position. For a brief moment Stiles was relieved, until Mitch made it so much worse by pushing his thigh up between Stiles’, spreading his legs and pulling him closer. Stiles could feel every breath, every shift in his brother’s muscles. His heartbeat was a steady, soothing pulse in sync with Stiles’ own. 

***

Familiar brown eyes looked down at him, dark with desire, but Stiles didn’t recognize them. Didn’t care to try. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing his neck for open-mouthed kisses. 

“Please,” he whispered. He was so hot, his body ached from it. Almost unbearable after the cold he’s been subjected to for months. Stiles’ shirt was pulled off and tossed aside and he felt like he could breathe again, only for his breath to be stolen in a kiss. 

Stiles spread his legs around his partner’s waist and pulled on his black hair. The strands were soft between his fingers and smelled faintly of lemongrass. 

_ Home, safe, warmth.  _

Stiles pulled off the man’s shirt and gasped at the feeling of skin on skin. No one has touched this body so intimately. 

_ Soapy, wet hands, warm on his chilled body, taking care not to let him drown.  _

Stiles was untouched. Everything that happened in that basement with Malia was erased from his sense memory. Even though he knew what happened, had a foggy memory of touching and being touched, there was no echo of soft hands to follow the broad palms running down his sides and squeezing around his hips to lift him up. The hard cock pressing against his ass was nothing familiar. 

“Fuck.” His stranger traced the on his neck from collarbone to ear with sucking kisses, leaving a trail of light red marks that had Stiles’ toes curling. He bit his bottom lip in a feeble attempt to silence his gasps and moans. 

“Don’t,” the stranger said, cupping Stiles cheek and thumbing his lip from between the vice of his teeth. “I want to hear you.” Stiles was held pinned in place by his gaze. The stranger smirked when Stiles sucked the digit into his mouth, curling his tongue around it. 

The couch was nowhere near enough room. At the same time there was almost too much space between them. Stiles wrapped his legs around the man’s trim waist and ground his hips up, seeking the pleasurable friction. His hands were taken and pinned above his head, leaving him to at his captor’s cruel mercy. 

“Touch me,” Stiles begged, squirming. He flexed his hands but didn’t try to tug them back; the restraint had chills tingling down his spine and to his cock. 

“As me nicely.” 

“ _ Please. _ ” Please, God, he would do anything. 

“Please, what?” the stranger taunted, smirking. 

Stiles shook his head. He couldn’t, didn’t know who his handsome stranger was. Every time he tried to look close, focus enough to recognize, his features blurred. Stiles didn’t know who he was, and didn’t want to. “I don’t know,” Stiles whimpered. He wanted to  _ come.  _ He couldn’t fucking  _ think _ , consumed with single-minded desperation. 

The stranger leaned down to kiss his ear and Stiles shivered. “Yes you do,” he whispered. Stiles shook his head in denial. The man tightened his grip around Stiles’ wrists— _tight enough to_ _bruise_ —and with his free hand reached down to cup Stiles’ cock and _squeeze_ , stroking him through his pants until he was right on the edge—

“ _ Mitch, _ ” Stiles gasped, and woke up. 

***

Stiles called his father in the late morning while Mitch made breakfast. John worked the night shift on Thanksgiving into Friday morning, and Stiles caught him right after he got home. 

“Hey, kiddo,” John answered tiredly. 

“Hey dad. Did you have a good night?”

“I’ve had worse. It was better than Melissa’s, I’m sure. There was a pretty big accident. No one died, thank god, but the ER was flooded last night.” 

“Ouch.” Stiles used to accompany Scott in taking lunch to his mom, but he hasn’t been to the ER since… since. 

“What about you, did you and Mitch have fun?” 

“Yeah, we did.” Stiles narrowed his eyes at Mitch’s back, speaking louder to ensure Mitch heard him. “Except Mitch thought he could get away without celebrating; I had to set him straight.” 

“How long are you going to hold that over me?” Mitch asked from his place at the stove. He was making pancakes; Stiles was almost willing to forgive him for that fact alone, but he would not be so easily bought. Even if the scent of vanilla was mouthwatering. 

“Forever,” he called back airily, and John laughed. Part of Stiles wished he’d been home with his dad for Thanksgiving, but Mitch had looked so content the whole day, quietly pleased— _ practically glowing,  _ Stiles thought—that any guilt Stiles had over not being there for his father evaporated. Besides, at least his dad still had Scott and Melissa to spend it with; Mitch had no one. “Are you gonna do Thanksgiving tonight?”

“Yeah. Would’ve done it Wednesday, but Mel was working.” 

“Give her and Scott a hug for me.” Since it was so hard for cops and nurses to get holiday’s off, they had a tradition of doing them either the day before or the day after, which always suited Stiles just fine. The date wasn’t significant to him; it was more important who he was spending it with. Stiles caught himself smiling when Mitch turned and put a plate of pancakes down in front of him, and mouthed ‘thank you’. “I’ve just been given pancakes, so I’ve got to go. Talk to you later, dad.” 

“See you later, kiddo.” 

***

Mitch’s firm was closed for the holiday weekend—the stock market closed Thursday, then opened for shortened hours on Friday, then closed for the weekend per normal operating hours—freeing Mitch from having to field phone calls in his off time. Stiles intended to take full advantage of his brother’s undivided attention, making it his goal to keep his mind off work for at least a few days. 

On Saturday, once the chaos of Friday sales died down—because going shopping on Black Friday was an absolute no-go—they ventured out into the city with a mission. First, they had to obtain a tree. Stiles was dubious about Mitch’s car, wondering how big of a fake tree they could stuff in there, but Mitch assured him they could just have it delivered. Which was perfect because it meant they could get Stiles’ other list of items: an obscene amount of ornaments, lights, and tchotchkes to pepper over the apartment.

“Amber is a classic,” Stiles said, surfing his basket down the aisle, “and looks good year round. Back home dad and I usually decorate after Thanksgiving, and leave everything up until like February. Mostly because neither of us can be bothered to take the decorations down for three months, but also it just looks pretty. I like having all the lights up.” 

“I can tell.” Mitch looked dubiously at the cartful of lights Stiles was gathering. “I’m pretty sure you could light up Times Square with all of those.” 

“You can never have too many lights,” Stiles defended. “We should go to Times Square at some point, actually. I’ve never been.” 

“Sure.” Stiles smiled brightly at his brother; he’d seen first hand how ferocious Mitch could be, but his easy acceptance of the request warmed him. Even his dad put up a fight with the things Stiles wanted to do half the time, but Mitch never did. 

***

They were really testing the capabilities of Mitch’s sleek sports car. With how many decorations they were buying, half the bags of decorations ended up in the passenger footwell and on Stiles’ lap. They made a brief stop at the apartment to drop everything off to be dealt with later, with the justification that they could decorate in the evening; Stiles wanted to spend the day outside. 

Central Park was just as beautiful this time as the first. An oasis of life in the midst of a concrete and glass wilderness, shining with ice. In the middle of the day it was filled with people, but Stiles hardly noticed them. His venture with Kira changed something in him, proved that he could handle more than he realized, and he was free to enjoy himself.  _ I guess subjecting myself to the mortifying ordeal of being known paid off.  _

Frost glittered in the faint glow cast by strings of lights wrapped around bare branches. Fluffy, dark grey clouds like a herd of sheep moved sluggishly across the sky. Back home that would mean a wicked rainstorm was on its way, but when Stiles checked the weather before they left, the temperature was 29 degrees. More than cold enough to freeze the rain.

“Do you think it’ll snow today?” Stiles asked, looking up at the overcast sky. 

“Probably.”

“I haven’t seen snow in  _ forever.  _ We mostly get rain in Beacon Hills. I think the last actual snow day was maybe ten years ago, or so?” Sometimes he and his dad would go snow hunting, driving into the mountains surrounding Beacon Hills until they found some, or going even farther. They could end up driving for hours, but the time spent together was always worth it even if they had to return home defeated. “We’ve definitely never had a white Christmas as far as I can remember, which sucks, because every year growing up that was probably the only thing I ever asked Santa for. Well, that and superpowers.” Little did young Stiles know, but one of those wishes would eventually come true. 

“It usually snows here on Christmas,” Mitch offered casually. “I can’t say for certain it does every year, but chances are good that it will.” 

Stiles took Mitch’s hand and swung their hands back and forth as they walked. Reaching out was getting easier and easier with his brother’s willing acceptance. Stiles didn’t feel like he had to fear rejection, when after almost a month together it was Mitch who kept reaching out first. He was always there to comfort or protect. Even now Mitch couldn’t hide his smile, even if it did make him roll his eyes. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Stiles glanced furtively at his brother. “I had my dad sign off on an extension for my online classes. He was fine with it, I mean, with all the shit that’s gone down at my highschool, he’s probably glad to have me avoiding it. Anyway, not the point. Technically the school is in Sacramento, but because I don’t physically have to be there, it doesn’t matter where I am.” 

“Okay…?” Mitch narrowed his eyes at Stiles, probably able to guess where he was going with this.  _ He hasn’t said no to me yet.  _

“What I’m trying to get at….” Stiles scuffed his feet on the ground as he walked, looked at their hands. Fingers laced together, he could feel the warmth between them even through his gloves. “I really like it here. And I don’t really want to go back to California. Not yet, at least, I don’t think I’m ready to face everything I left back there.” Stiles didn’t think he ever would be, honestly. Beacon Hills was full of so many memories, few of them good. “I know me staying here was only supposed to be for a few weeks, and I’m going back home soon, but….”

“Hey.” Mitch stopped walking and coaxed Stiles to look at him. His eyes were soft and familiar, like home. Stiles couldn’t look away when a home was all he wanted. “You’re always welcome here, for as long as you want.” 

Stiles worried his bottom lip. It was a generous offer, but Mitch didn’t know what he was getting into where Stiles was concerned. He’d barely scratched the tip of the iceberg with the nightmares and panic attacks. There was so much more he didn’t know about, things that Stiles couldn’t tell him. He wasn’t just a depressed, anxiety-ridden teenager, it wasn’t just PTSD, or whatever else Mitch thought about him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Mitch squeezed his hand. “I’ve gotten used to having you around.” Stiles smiled tentatively. 

“So I can come back after New Years, maybe?” He  _ did  _ want to go home and see his dad, get reacquainted with the pack. He missed them. He even missed  _ Peter,  _ it was just the other stuff he could do without, the killing and dying. 

“As long as your dad’s okay with it,” Mitch said with the soft smile he only ever showed to Stiles. 

***

Stiles watched people ice skating on what looked like a frozen pond. Mitch noticed a place to rent skates and talked Stiles into giving it a shot. Once they got laced into the skates, Stiles let Mitch pull him out onto the ice. 

It wasn’t like that time in sophomore year where he went to the ice rink after hours. This time there were witnesses, and the ice was carved up, not smooth like before. Back then at the rink Stiles had been surprisingly steady on his feet—although he was nothing compared to Lydia’s effortless grace—but there was none of that to be seen here. Luckily Mitch was there to catch him when he slipped, laughing as Stiles clutched the back of his coat. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Never better,” Stiles groaned. He straightened carefully, but didn’t let go, putting his hands on Mitch’s shoulders for balance. Even once he was steady on his feet he kept his arms around Mitch, his brother’s hands on his waist to keep him from falling again. Stiles could only imagine how they looked together. He blushed, and couldn’t blame it entirely on the cold or embarrassment. “Okay… I think I’ve got it now.”

“You sure?” Stiles nodded. Slowly Mitch skated away from him, his hand skimming down Stiles’ arm until just their fingertips were brushing, ready to catch him again if he fell. Stiles pushed against the ice, carefully moving forward, getting used to the slick feel of it under his blades. 

Once he had the hang of it again he skipped past Mitch with a hard kick, cutting through the people around them with a delighted laugh. He felt like he was soaring. Mitch was quick to follow, catching up to Stiles with ease. Once beside him he pivoted on one foot and skate backwards, wearing a kind of carefree, childlike smile that Stiles had only seen in his photographs. Stiles realized in that moment he would do anything to keep Mitch smiling at him like that. 

***

They spent at least an hour chasing each other on the ice, or skating hand in hand. Once, Mitch took him by the hand and twirled him around like they were dancing. Stiles felt his heart flutter in his chest when he caught himself against Mitch, dizzy and dazed for a whole other reason. 

After turning in their skates they got hot chocolate with crushed candy canes sprinkled on top of the whipped cream, and began the slow walk back to the car. It was getting late and both had red noses from the cold, not that Stiles minded. The slight bite of the frost in the air reminded him that he was alive. Even his cold body felt warm compared to the chill. 

Mitch’s phone rang, and like a shot through glass the atmosphere was shattered. Stiles was curious when Mitch checked the caller ID and his expression turned to one that distinctly said:  _ busted.  _

“Is that a work thing?” Stiles asked. 

“Sort of,” Mitch said, then answered. “Hey, Felix.” Stiles couldn’t hear what was being said on the other line, but Mitch apologized and looked remarkably bashful, like he was getting scolded, and Stiles’ interest was piqued. The conversation was short, with Mitch saying things like  _ I’m sorry,  _ and  _ no, I’m not doing that,  _ and  _ that’s not necessary,  _ and a reluctant  _ fine,  _ followed by a promise to come in ASAP. 

“What was that about?” 

“Every year my firm hosts a charity event, and it’s coming up in a little over a week.  _ That  _ was my tailor demanding I come in and get fitted.” Mitch rolled his eyes, but he sounded fond. 

“You have a  _ tailor? _ ”

“He’s a necessary evil.” Mitch looked pensive for a moment, appraising Stiles. “How would you feel about coming with me? It’s basically a big party, kind of like your school’s winter formal.”

Stiles found himself agreeing without fully considering the consequences. “That sounds fun.” 

***

The tailor’s shop had an old world quality to it. The sign hanging out front was a black chalk plate with brass lettering and wrought iron fixtures that wouldn’t be out of place in Victorian England. The large windows displayed several styles of menswear on cloth mannequins, illuminated by the warm light inside. 

Mitch held the mahogany door open for Stiles and he walked inside, grateful to get out of the cold. There was a man changing out a display of cufflinks. He turned upon hearing the bell over the door, fixing Stiles with piercing, cat-like hazel eyes, striking against his dapper emerald and brown suit. He had dark skin and grey, shoulder length locs bound elegantly out of his face. 

“Mitch, my boy,” the tailor greeted when he followed Stiles into the shop. “It’s been ages.” He left his display to properly welcome Mitch with a hug. 

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, I’ve had my hands full with this one,” Mitch said, nodding towards Stiles. 

“Apparently.” He turned his attention to Stiles, eyeing him critically. The scan he gave him made Stiles squirm in discomfort, feeling like he had been found wanting. “Who is this?” Mitch put a comforting hand on the small of Stiles’ back, smiling at his friend’s antics.

“Be nice, Felix. This is my brother, Stiles.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Neither did I.” Felix raised his eyebrows—brothers didn’t tend to come out of nowhere—and Mitch shrugged. “I’m taking Stiles as my date; he needs an outfit.” A shiver ran down Stiles’ back. The last time he had a date to a winter formal, she wasn’t so willing. Mitch sounded almost proud.  _ Is this really the first time someone’s asked me to be their date?  _ Stiles realized with equal parts sadness and excitement that it was. 

Felix wasn’t so impressed. He turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Stiles shot a confused look at Mitch, but he grinned and ushered Stiles along after him instead, following behind into a fitting room. 

“You are lucky I like you, Mitch. Anyone else came to me with a week to work—on  _ two  _ outfits no less—I would have their head.” Felix snapped his fingers at Stiles twice. “Up here please, dear. And remove these layers so I can actually get at you.” Stiles climbed onto the stool indicated to be measured. Mitch took his hand to steady him when he wobbled, and Stiles handed him his jacket and sweater, then the loose hoodie he wore under that when Felix tsked at him. It made him feel naked, standing there in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.  _ I guess I’m lucky I get to keep that much.  _ While Mitch had already seen him naked, Stiles wasn’t too into exposing himself in front of strangers. Wouldn’t be able to deal with the scrutiny Felix was sure to give him. 

Felix removed the measuring tape draped around his neck with a snap, then measured Stiles’ legs. First his inseam and outseam, as well as around the top of his thigh, and around his waist. Then he had Stiles step down to measure his shoulders, noting them down as he went. Felix seemed pleased with Stiles’ measurements; as much as he hid himself behind layers of clothes, he had good proportions he supposed _.  _ While he could still stand to put on a few pounds—Stiles remembered the way Mitch looked at him,  _ Jesus Christ— _ with the right angle he might even look as good and put together as his brother, rather than an awkward gangly teenager.

***

Felix hummed while he measured across Stiles’ chest, glancing briefly at Mitch’s reflection. “What will you be wearing?” When Mitch didn’t answer, Felix cast a shrewd glare in his direction. “You know it’s gauche to repeat an outfit for an event like this. I thought I taught you better than that.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Mitch defended. “Playing dress up doll is not a priority for me.” He didn’t put as much stock into clothing as Felix did, perfectly content to wear the same outfit to every event if he didn’t think he’d get strangled with a measuring tape for it. 

“You disappoint me, child.” Felix measured around Stiles’ neck and then tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was done. Stiles was quick to redress, accepting his clothes from Mitch gratefully. He quickly redressed.

Apparently they weren’t done, however. Felix stood in front of them, arms crossed neatly across his chest, scrutinizing. “I think I like you in burgundy,” he said finally, pointing one dark, slender finger at Stiles. “I’ll retrieve some swatches. Mitch, if you please.” 

“We’ll be right back,” Mitch assured, lightly touching Stiles’ wrist when he caught the worried expression on his face. 

“Are you sure you want to take that boy as your date?” Felix asked once they were alone in the work room. There were several mannequins with fabric pinned to them, outfits in various stages of completion. Along the back wall were rows of mounted bolts, and beneath it drawers of swatches, buttons, and other accoutrements. Felix pulled open a drawer beneath the red and burgundy bolts. “Your brother is a little rough around the edges. I’m not sure he’s up for it.”

“Careful,” Mitch warned. 

“I’m not trying to be rude, but even you have to admit that he will be out of place among New York’s high society. This isn’t some silly gala or charity ball that  _ anyone  _ can buy a ticket to,” Felix scoffed, “those vultures are going to eat him alive.”

“He’ll be fine,” Mitch insisted, confident that no one would try to insult Stiles in front of him. Felix disagreed.

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“ _ Felix. _ ” The tailor shut the drawer he was looking through with a snap, harsher than perhaps intended. Several swatches of fabric were stacked on top of the wardrobe. He rounded on Mitch with palpable frustration, and Mitch felt like he was eighteen years old again, about to get scolded.

“I like to think we’re friends, so I am telling you, as your  _ friend _ , that you are about to throw this child into the deep end with no life-jacket. He was not raised the way you were, and that is going to be made very plain to anyone who sets eyes on him. At the very least, try to teach him some etiquette. His behavior will reflect on you, after all.” 

“I’m aware,” Mitch said coolly. 

“Now,” Felix chirped, “what are we to do about  _ you? _ ” Just like that, the subject of Stiles was dropped. He looked between the swatches he’d picked and the dozens of bolts on the walls, deliberating, and then, “I think something blue with gold accents for both of you will be exquisite. If you’re going to take him, then you may as well look the part of dashing brothers. If Stiles is anything like you, then I am  _ certain  _ he’ll clean up well, with a little bit of effort.”

***

Left alone, Stiles went to sit in the dark velvet seat in the corner, stroking his fingers over the rich upholstery. 

The small room was lined with several large mirrors, allowing clients to see the entirety of their outfits. It was like there was nowhere safe for him to look, unable to avoid his own reflection, so he stared resolutely at the door, counting the heartbeats until Mitch’s return.

Stiles jumped up when the pair came back about ten minutes later. Felix tsked at him, saying something under his breath that sounded like,  _ so nervous _ , with a pointed glare at Mitch. 

“So…?” Stiles didn’t have anything to say, hoping Felix would lead the conversation as he had done thus far. He did not disappoint. He thrust half the pile of swatches in Mitch’s direction, keeping only the burgundies. Mitch nudged Stiles out of the way to steal his seat. “What are the blue ones for?” Stiles asked, eyeing the pieces resting on Mitch’s thigh, waiting to be used. 

“Mitch—he looks best in blue. The stubborn fool hardly lets me get him into anything else, even though—”

“I’m not wearing purple,” Mitch interrupted. Felix made a frustrated sort of sound in the back of his throat, almost like a werewolf’s growl. 

“He breaks my heart, truly. It would be such a gorgeous color on you, so regal.” 

“It’s the color of royalty, right?” Stiles offered. Felix gave him a dazzling smile, and Stiles relaxed somewhat as a swatch was held up beside his face. 

“See,  _ you  _ get it. Now if you could convince your stubborn brother…” Felix sighed. “Oh well. Burgundy and blue is the next best thing. How do you feel about velvet, Stiles?”

“I don’t think…” Stiles’ skin turned even more pale. An all velvet outfit? That was certain to attract more attention. More than he wanted, from  _ far _ too many strangers.

“Something a little more understated than that,” Mitch suggested. Stiles gave him a grateful smile as Mitch winked at him. 

“You’re spoiling my fun.  _ Very well _ .” Three swatches were tossed aside, leaving five more that were soon narrowed down to two. “Hmmm. Come here, Mitch, make yourself useful.” Stiles was a little taken aback when Mitch got up, allowing himself to be ordered around. He stood beside Felix, regarding the colors with far less scrutiny than his friend. 

“I like the darker one.” 

“Yes, that’s what I thought as well.” Felix patted his cheek. One swatch—lighter, more of a brick red—was cast off to join the others. The victor, a deep wine shade, was set aside separately from the pile for now. “Now, your turn. What shall we dress you in this time?” 

The blue swatches were taken from Mitch and spread out on a small table, allowing Felix to compare them to the chosen burgundy. The velvet swatches were tossed aside immediately, although it looked like it broke his heart to do so. 

***

Only once it was narrowed to three did Felix compare them to Mitch, deliberating on what the final color would be. In the end, he chose a deep blue that complimented Mitch’s olive skin beautifully. The shade was a midnight blue, the same as the eastern horizon at sunset. Eyes alight with the possibilities, Felix looked like he couldn’t wait to begin designing their outfits. 

“You both will be outstanding,” Felix declared. “Come back in five days, I’ll have the pieces finished and ready for any necessary adjustments.”

“Thank you, Felix.” Mitch and Stiles followed Felix back to the front of the shop. 

“You’re lucky you’re my favorite client and I’m willing to drop everything for a rush order. No one else has that privilege, and for good reason. You can't rush perfection.  _ But,  _ fortunately for you, I happen to be a miracle worker.” 

“It’s why we came to you.” Mitch accepted a kiss on the cheek and let Felix shoo them out of the shop, taking a bewildered Stiles with him. 

“That was… an experience.”

“Felix takes some getting used to,” Mitch agreed, quirking a grin at Stiles. “But I’ve known him for a long time, and he’s great at what he does.”

***

Stiles stuck miniature command hooks all around the window, and Mitch followed him with the spooled up string of lights. A video of a fireplace crackled and popped on the TV, adding to the ambiance that Stiles was carefully crafting. Neither turned on the kitchen lights as night began to fall, content in the soft glow from the Christmas lights. 

Stiles let Mitch do the heavy lifting in putting up the tree, then took over to fluff out the artificial branches and arrange them how he liked. It was a foot taller than Mitch with white flocking on some of the branches to replicate snow. The tree would look beautiful once it was fully decorated. By itself it was elegant, with the built in amber lights shining from within the branches.

In keeping with the color scheme of the apartment, the ornaments were all in shades of blue, with gold and silver to stand out and reflect the light. Together they filled the tree to bursting with little round orbs. A light blue ornament caught Stiles’ reflection in its mirrored surface. He held it up and smiled; the only distortion in his reflection came from the rounded surface.

Across from him Mitch caught his eye. The warm light reflected in his brown eyes, turned them into molten gold, and highlighted his hair with honey. His shirt rose up when he reached to place an ornament at the top of the tree, and Stiles had to force his eyes away from his bare abdomen. If Mitch noticed his red cheeks, he would blame it on the warmth of the apartment. 

The ornaments were followed by strategically placed candy canes and pine cones scented with cloves and nutmeg. “Those smell good,” Mitch commented when Stiles opened the package. He stood back to let Stiles work, watching him carefully nestle each pinecone into the tree. 

“I know, right? I love these things.” The spicy scent smelled like Christmas, even if the date was still a month away. 

There were still a few empty places at the top of the tree, out of Stiles’ easy reach. He gave the bag of remaining pinecones to Mitch with the express direction to fill the gaps, and went to put the finishing touches on the living room. Two stockings laden with candy were hanging under the ‘fireplace’, and Stiles scattered a few snow globes and figurines on the bookcase beneath.  _ I wonder if there’s any good Christmas recipes in one of those books,  _ Stiles thought. He forced himself not to think about the fact he wouldn’t be here to find out, and adjusted a Santa hat-wearing Chewbacca instead. 

Stiles hung up a wreath on the front door, then joined Mitch back over by the tree. There was only one thing left to complete it. “Do you want to do the honors?” He asked, holding up a crystal star. 

“Sure.” Mitch smiled warmly and took the star, carefully reaching up to put it at the top of the tree. He stood back to admire their handiwork, putting his arm around Stiles’ waist and leaning into him. “Not bad, kid,” he said, but Stiles heard what he really meant. 

_ Thank you.  _

***

Two days before the event, they returned to Felix’s shop for a final fitting. Stiles was left alone to dress, while Mitch did the same in the room beside his; he could faintly hear Mitch and Felix talking. The burgundy jacket was striking against his pale skin, bringing out the slight color in his cheeks, with just a hint of gold thread to accent it. The midnight blue shirt—the same shade that Felix decided Mitch would wear—complimented the burgundy perfectly. 

Stiles met his reflection unflinchingly for the first time in weeks, and didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. It was almost a relief. The person in the mirror looked refined, carried himself with confidence. He didn’t need a demon to give that to him. Stiles saw in the mirror the person he could become, given time. 

Someone knocked on the door. “Uh, I’m done,” Stiles said. The door opened to admit Felix and Mitch.

“Looks good,” Mitch said, coming up behind him. Stiles met his dark eyes in the mirror and smiled, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. Mitch was dressed inversely to him, blue jacket and pants with a burgundy shirt, the top two buttons undone. Stiles turned around to face him fully. He was handsome. 

“Of course he does, I do great work,” Felix said breezily. He was wearing a blue and green tartan suit today, with round gold glasses perched on his nose. “Go on, stand next to each other, let me get a good look at you.” 

Stiles obediently moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mitch. He couldn’t stop touching his jacket, the fabric silky smooth and cool under his fingertips, with the slightest sheen to catch the light. Felix sighed wistfully. 

“Breathtaking. You two will be the talk of the evening,” he declared. Stiles shifted uneasily; his momentary confidence faded under the promise of scrutiny. Mitch was used to that kind of attention, but Stiles wasn’t sure he was ready to handle it. Sensing his unease, Mitch put his hand on Stiles’ lower back, a reminder that he wouldn’t be alone. “If nothing else, you’ll be the most gorgeous pair in attendance, like matching bookends. We should have found you ages ago, Stiles. I have two other clients attending and they are sure to be rife with jealousy, it will be delightful. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

***

It was with much trepidation that Stiles pulled up Lydia’s contact, but he needed help, and she was the only one who could give it. Having been raised the son of a cop, Stiles wasn’t exactly well-versed in proper high-society etiquette. Stiles stared at his phone for a long time before hitting ‘call’. These days they only communicated through infrequent texts; Stiles had no idea if she would be able to stomach hearing his voice so soon, after what he—the  _ Nogitsune,  _ Stiles reminded himself—did to her. 

Lydia answered on the second ring. Stiles was filled with relief and trepidation in equal measure, unable to speak. His voice was frozen in his throat. 

“Stiles?” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Are you okay?”

Stiles swallowed thickly and forced his voice to work. “Hey, Lyds… Yeah, uh, I’m good. How are you?” 

“I’ve been better,” she answered honestly. “But I’m doing good, too.”

“That’s good….”

A long pause. Stiles listened to her breathe, thankful that she at least was still able to. “Did you need something?” She asked, her voice dropping with concern.

“Yeah. I—I need help. If you have some time, I mean. If you’re busy I don’t want to impose, or anything—”

“I have time,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was soft. Stiles missed her so much, wished he could see her. 

“The day after tomorrow I’m going to this charity ball slash auction thing, and I have no idea what to do... I tried googling etiquette and stuff but that was just telling me things about forks and I don’t understand and I really don’t want to freak out over  _ forks  _ and end up embarrassing Mitch because I can’t figure out how to act,” Stiles blurted, picking up speed as he spoke until he was a rambling mess. To her credit, Lydia was used to him by now, and was quick enough to keep up. She hummed and Stiles didn’t know what that meant. 

“I’m assuming this is a black tie event?” 

“I’m pretty sure. Mitch and I had to get tailored tux and everything. It was actually kind of cool,” Stiles admitted.  _ Does it count as black tie if my tie isn’t black? _

“Well, first of all, don’t worry about forks.” Stiles could hear the smile in her voice. “In America, the system is easy. You start on the outside and work your way in. Should it become an issue, just copy everyone around you and you’ll do fine. And you’ve already got an outfit covered, which is good. That’s half the preparation right there.” 

“What’s the other half?” Stiles asked dubiously. 

“You need to act like you belong, and no one will notice if you feel out of place—which I can tell you’re worried about. Stand tall, don’t be a wallflower, and don’t do anything inappropriate.” 

“What if people try to  _ talk  _ to me?” That was Stiles’ biggest fear, that someone would expose him for a fraud when he didn’t have anything intelligent to say. 

“You’re clever, Stiles, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle some light conversation. Unless someone recognizes you as an expert on a certain topic, they aren’t likely to ask you about it. What is the event called?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t think to ask. But, um, it’s being put on by Mitch’s company, Orion Investments?” Stiles heard Lydia inhale sharply. 

“Your brother is Mitch  _ Rapp _ ?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said weakly. Of course Lydia knew who he was; Stiles had come to learn that he was something of a legend in the financial sphere. He was the youngest CEO on Wall Street with an uncanny talent for reading the market and finding good deals for his clients. Not even Lydia’s family would be able to get anywhere near him, and yet here Stiles is, going to an event he was not at all prepared for, as his  _ date _ of all things. 

“How do you manage to get yourself into these situations, Stiles?” Lydia sighed. Stiles could imagine her shaking her strawberry hair, delicately flicking a stray strand out of her face with perfectly manicured nails. 

“I don’t even know.” If he was being honest, he was beginning to regret accepting Mitch’s invitation. 

“Alright. Give me a moment to look up the details, then we’ll get you ready for the ball, Cinderella.” 

Stiles put his phone on speaker, pulled his laptop over, and smiled. It was almost like old times. 

***

It was time. Every time Stiles thought about where he was going to be in an hour, his heart started racing with equal parts anxiety and excitement. His phone chimed with a text from Lydia wishing him good luck, and it was enough to bolster his confidence. 

Stiles finally got up and got dressed. Burgundy pants, navy shirt, pale gold waistcoat—silky smooth, with what he was sure were ivory buttons—and burgundy jacket. His pocket square and bow tie were made of the same pale gold as his waistcoat. Once dressed he met Mitch in his room, who showed him how to fold his pocket square. 

Stiles struggled for several minutes trying and failing to tie his tie himself. Finally he had to admit defeat, and said sheepishly, “I’ve, uh, never worn one of these before.”

“Let me help you.” Stiles gratefully dropped his hands and tilted his head back to give Mitch room to help him, baring his neck easily. He tied it in a neat bow with ease of practice, then briefly stepped away to get a pair of cufflinks. Stiles held his arm out and Mitch threaded the little gold pieces through his shirt sleeve, then did the same with the second. “Only button the top one. Using both makes you look stiff,” Mitch said, unbuttoning Stiles’ jacket for him. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, a little breathless. He wasn’t used to dressing so formally. Even when he went to the winter formal last year, he wore an ill-fitting suit and a work tie he borrowed from his father. Even just switching out a straight tie for a bow made him feel fancy. Of course, Mitch had forgone his own and left the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Rebel. The blatant disregard didn’t detract from the look in the slightest. 

“No problem.” Mitch stepped back to appraise Stiles and nodded in approval. “You look good.” 

“You do, too.” Mitch undoubtedly wore the suit better than Stiles did by virtue of him being much more comfortable in his skin than Stiles was. He was getting there, though. Slowly but surely, he was healing. Grinning, Stiles couldn’t help but tease, “You clean up well.” Although if he was being honest, Stiles preferred the jeans and t-shirts he was accustomed to seeing Mitch in, paired most often with boots instead of the oxfords he wore now—and Stiles only knew that much thanks to Kingsmen. In the absence of fancy shoes for himself, Stiles declined shopping for a pair and wore his beat up black and white converse instead. They were sure to paint him as an outsider, but fuck it, they were comfortable. 

Mitch checked his watch, then picked his coat up off the bed. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” That familiar pulse of excitement jolted his heart. “Ooh, wait, we should take a picture.” His dad would want to see him, and Lydia would kill him if she didn’t get to see how he looked. 

Mitch obligingly put his arm around Stiles and leaned into him, smiling when Stiles held his phone up. He posted the picture to Instagram with the caption  _ On my way to a ball, feeling like Cinderella.  _ He wondered if that made Mitch his Prince Charming. Stiles also texted the picture to his dad, then slipped his phone into his breast pocket and linked his arm with Mitch. “Okay, now I’m ready.” Excitement thrummed in Stiles’ veins as he followed Mitch out of the apartment. 

***

“How are you feeling?” Mitch asked. Stiles shifted in his seat, looking out the window. They were in a line of cars heading towards the front of the venue, waiting to hand the keys off to a valet.  _ Of course there’s a valet service, what the fuck.  _

“There’s so many  _ people. _ ” Stiles knew he should have expected that—and logically, he did—but seeing it was a whole other beast. He dried his sweaty palms on his pants and flashed Mitch a nervous smile. “I might be freaking out a little bit. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Was it too late for him to back out and stay in the car all night?

“You’ll be fine,” Mitch assured. He put his hand on Stiles’ thigh, a comforting, grounding weight, and Stiles nodded, feeling a little too breathless to speak. Slowly the tension drained out of him, little by little, and made it easier for him to breathe. He could faintly smell Mitch’s cologne, sweeter than oxygen in his lungs. They got out of the car once they reached the front of the venue. Mitch handed his keys to a valet, then offered Stiles his arm with a devilish grin. Stiles’ cheeks warmed when he took it, and followed Mitch up the stone steps into the richly decorated venue. 

The interior was gorgeous. Light glittered off the crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures that decorated the drink tables. Evergreens and fake snow frosted every available surface. A cascade of string lights fell down the wall, interspersed by glass snowflakes. A live band performed at one side of the room, loud enough to be heard without dominating the low, thrumming buzz of conversation throughout the vast room, echoing around the high ceiling. 

“Woah,” Stiles breathed, his eyes wide, trying to take it all in. On either side of the band stood two Christmas trees, decorated in red and gold. There were others, smaller trees with miniature baubles scattered through the ballroom wherever there was an open space. “Is this what you do all the time?”

“A few times a year.” Mitch smiled as Stiles pulled him out of the way towards one of the trees against the wall. It was real, Stiles realized, taking a deep breath to inhale the fresh scent of pine. Nothing like the smells he was accustomed to from the Preserve. “This is one of the big ones, with Christmas coming up.” 

“I can imagine.” Stiles was the only thing in the ornate ballroom that didn’t belong.  

Stiles needlessly straightened his jacket and tugged at the collar of his shirt. It was suffocating, being buttoned up to his throat and restrained with deceptively strong silk. His suit was his armor. An elaborate disguise to hide the fact that he didn’t belong, perfectly molded so that no one would notice the interloper in their ranks. 

“Relax,” Mitch said softly. “It’s supposed to be fun. No one expects anything from you.” 

“Thank God for that, because otherwise they’ll be seriously disappointed.” Mitch smiled brightly and Stiles felt some of his tension ease. He stood up straight and put on a smile of his own; he may as well enjoy the night, after the work that went into getting him presentable. 

***

Since Stiles didn’t know anyone or anything, he didn’t feel compelled to stop and talk, although several people did begin to notice Mitch. He ignored the onlookers for now—there would be time to socialize later—and let Stiles pull him towards the band. 

“This is so cool,” Stiles said, his eyes bright with awe. He’s never heard live classical music before, and only vaguely recognized the Christmas tune they played. “Now  _ this  _ is how you know it’s a rich people party.” 

“Really?” Mitch asked, a small smile quirking his lips. “This is what does it for you?” 

“Yep. That and the champagne towers over there.” Stiles frowned and said with fake authority, “I’m betting those are real glasses, too, not the plastic stuff from the 99 Cent Store.” 

“You would be correct.”

“Ha! See, I’m not totally clueless.” Never mind that accurately guessing the flutes were actually glass wasn’t any special feat; no organizer worth their paycheck would use plastic for a high school prom, let alone a charity event. 

“I never thought you were.” 

***

A while later, Mitch leaned in to ensure Stiles could hear him, his lips brushing his ear when he said, “I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay….” Stiles watched him go, touching his neck where Mitch almost kissed him. 

“Quite the catch you’ve got there, lad.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles whipped around to find an older couple giving him knowing looks. The man was handsome, with clear blue eyes and grey hair, and a carefully sculpted beard. In answer to Stiles’ confusion he nodded towards the direction Mitch went, smirking, and it dawned on him. “Oh! Oh, no, it’s not like that. I’m his brother!” 

“Oh, our mistake, dear,” the woman said. She was beautiful, in that ageless way some older women were. Unlike some of the others at the party she wasn’t clinging to her youth; change the elegant black gown for jeans and a t-shirt, and she could be someone’s mom. She laughed, holding onto her husband’s arm; an impressive diamond-encrusted ring glittered on her finger. “And here I thought Mitch had finally found someone.” 

“I mean… I guess he did? Just not the kind of someone you thought.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward little laugh. “Um, how do you know him?” 

“We’re friends.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Julian, this is my wife Beth. Are you by chance Claudia’s boy?” 

“Yes….”

“Forgive me, it’s only I knew her a long time ago. Through unfortunate circumstances, I’m afraid.” He added, and smiled sadly. “You look just like her.” 

Stiles was saved from having to respond when Mitch returned, holding two flutes of champagne. “Julian,” Mitch said, visibly surprised. “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” 

“It would seem this is the only way to get in touch with you, young man,” Julian chided. Beth welcomed Mitch with a hug, and he kissed her cheek. 

“We’ve missed you,” she said. Mitch looked marginally guilty. Stiles looked between the three of them, wondering who they were that they treated Mitch with such parental affection, greeting him like a wayward son. 

“You’re the divorce lawyer,” Stiles blurted, the realization dawning on him. Julian at least had the good grace to look ashamed, while Beth rubbed his arm comfortingly. Stiles gravitated towards Mitch, leaning into him. 

“As I said, unfortunate circumstances.” Stiles had a million questions for him, but he knew now wasn’t the place to ask them. Before he could put his foot in his mouth, Julian noticed the two glasses Mitch held. “Is Stiles old enough for that?” He asked disapprovingly. 

“You don’t want to know.” Mitch grinned. “You should maintain at least some plausible deniability, Julian.” 

“This one,” Beth laughed. She shook her head ruefully. “Don’t let his charm fool you; Jules has had to get him out of so much trouble growing up. Clever as the devil and twice as pretty, as they say.” Stiles couldn’t disagree with her assessment. “We’ll leave you both alone. It was a pleasure to meet you, Stiles.” 

“You, too….” Stiles watched them go with a curious tilt to his head; they were nothing like he expected, after what few details Mitch gave him. His brother looked way more comfortable with them now than he’d led Stiles to believe.  _ Maybe that’s just ‘cause he’s all grown up now.  _ Once they were safely unsupervised, Stiles turned to Mitch, eyeing the alcohol. 

“One of those is for me, right?” Mitch held the champagne out of reach when Stiles tried to take it. 

“Don’t tell your father,” he said with faux-sternness. 

“I won’t,” Stiles agreed eagerly, and Mitch handed him the glass. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?” 

“Not as long as you behave yourself. Act twenty-one and we’ll be fine.” 

***

It was surprisingly warm inside. Stifling, almost. Mitch was busy talking shop with a small group, and Stiles was nodding along like he understood, but his presence there was unnecessary. He waited for a lull in the conversation to get Mitch’s coveted attention. 

“I’m going to go outside for a minute, get some fresh air.” 

“Are you alright?” Mitch broke from the conversation and returned to the concerned brother Stiles knew, making him smile warmly. 

“Yeah, just hot. And I want to check out the garden.” That wasn’t the only reason, though. Mitch was clearly in his element, and the divide between their lives had never been so stark. Stiles knew he had nothing to offer the conversation and wanted to bow out before the creeping sense of isolation became too much. But he didn’t want Mitch to know that. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Mitch brushed his hand over Stiles’ arm, “I’ll see you in a few.” 

Stiles nodded and slipped away. 

If the interior was beautiful, it had nothing on the gardens. Sometime during the night it started to snow, a soft layer covering the manicured hedges and flowers. Amber christmas lights lit up the large yard, cast over the fences and winding around banisters, entwined with the trees. Stiles felt like he was in another, mystical world. 

A few people milled about through the brick paths but Stiles stayed on the covered patio, leaning against a stone pillar. It leached the warmth from his body, the familiar chill setting in and replacing the heat from inside. The noise in the ballroom was a soft din, dampened by the glass doors. 

Stiles wasn’t left alone for long before someone called out to him. He almost startled, not expecting anyone to want his attention if he wasn’t with Mitch, but managed to contain himself.

“Hello.”

“Hi-hey. Hello.” Stiles stood up straight and turned around. The woman that approached was beautiful. She had to be about Mitch’s age—that in itself was somewhat surprising, as the party was made up of mostly older men and women, with even older money. Like everyone else in attendance she was expensively dressed; or so Stiles assumed, from all of her gaudy diamond jewelry and her low cut silver dress. Her makeup was done to perfection, giving an intimidating looked to her face, but she smiled warmly. 

“Hello,” she said again with a light laugh. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” 

“Thank you. It was getting a bit stuffy in there, wasn’t it?” 

“A little,” Stiles admitted. He felt out of his depth; he didn’t know anything about art or finance or culture, and so far no one had brought up comics or media. “Uh, I’m Stiles. Not really, it’s a nickname, which is why it sounds weird, but it’s what everyone calls me.”

“I’m Amelia. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stiles,” she said, then glanced at one of the large picture windows. Stiles followed her gaze and saw Mitch talking with a small crowd. He looked confident, thriving under their undivided attention where Stiles only wilted. “Am I right that you came with Mitch?”

“Yes….” Stiles was somewhat relieved to have the conversation directed away from him. Everyone wanted to talk to Mitch, or use Stiles to get close to him, and he was perfectly fine with that. Although most people, aside from Beth and Julian, didn’t say his name with such familiarity. “Do you know him?”

“I do. We went to high school together, I haven’t seen him in years.” Amelia turned her piercing green eyes back on Stiles and grinned bashfully. “We actually used to be an item, back then.” 

Stiles blinked at her, unsure of what to say. “What was he like in high school?”

“Like everyone else, I suppose. It was a very prestigious school; there wasn’t much about him that stood out when we all came from wealthy families.” 

“Uh….” Stiles scowled at her. It sat wrong with him that Amelia so casually downplayed Mitch. Although Stiles didn’t know him back then, so maybe she was right that there was nothing special about him, but Stiles found that hard to believe.

“How long have you known Mitch?”

“A few months, I guess. We started talking online this summer, but we only met for the first time this month. 

“You must be special for him to bring you here.” Amelia gave Stiles a shrewd one over. “From what I’ve heard, Mitch almost always goes alone to these things.”

“I guess, I mean it was kind of a spur of the moment thing.” Stiles crossed his arms and looked back inside, but Mitch was nowhere to be seen.  _ I should have stayed with him.  _

“I’m sure.” Any warmth Stiles thought Amelia had evaporated. “I didn’t think Mitch was… like that. But it makes sense, I suppose.” 

“Excuse me?”  _ Is she really implying—?  _ “What the fuck is your problem, lady?”

“Stiles, there you are,” Mitch interrupted. A good thing too, because Stiles was probably about to do something regrettable. 

“Here I am,” Stiles said through gritted teeth. As soon as Mitch came over Amelia’s entire demeanor changed; she flipped her hair over he shoulder and stood straighter, crossing her arms under her breasts. Stiles was amazed they didn’t fall out of her dress. 

“Mitch, long time no see,” she said, her voice sticky sweet, and  _ oh, that’s what this is.  _ She really thought something was going to happen there. Mitch wasn’t impressed. 

“Amelia. You look cold.” Her dress was thin and strapless, and barely reached her knees. She looked more like she was attending a cocktail party than a high-end ball. Nothing about her outfit was suited to the weather, but it did successfully show off her body. “Who did you come with? I know you didn’t get an invitation.” 

“I came with a friend,” she huffed. 

“One of your father’s?” Mitch asked knowingly. 

“No. He doesn’t have any, thanks to you.” 

“Your father’s actions were his own fault.”

Her face reddened beneath her makeup. “You know what you did!”

“I saved my father’s company.” There was a sharp edge to Mitch’s sweet smile. “Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime.” 

“Maybe not. But according to the police, some of your other activities might be.” Amelia flicked a dismissive glare in Stiles’ direction. “Sleeping with little boys, now? I wonder what your clients might think of  _ that. _ ” She tsked. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and take that to the  _ Times _ ,” Mitch said sarcastically. “See how well it works out for you to spread rumors about my  _ brother _ . I’m sure the fall out will be entertaining as hell.” 

“You’re lying, you don’t have any family,” Amelia spat. Mitch tensed, but was careful not to show it. Stiles doubted anyone other them him would notice; Amelia certainly didn’t know Mitch well enough to see the change. Not like Stiles did. His only outward tell was a scarily blank expression.

“Give your father my regards next time you see him. Be careful, though; prison’s no place for a woman.” He put his arm around Stiles waist and said, “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” 

Amelia was clearly dismissed, and looked ready to throw a fit over it, but Mitch didn’t give her a chance. He guided Stiles away, and Stiles forced himself not to look at her again. 

“What the fuck was that about?” He asked when they were back inside.

“Bitter ex,” Mitch said, like that explained everything. “I found out her father and several other board members were embezzling from my father’s company and driving it under. Amelia and I were dating at the time; she wanted me to look the other way.” 

“And you obviously didn’t.” Stiles shook his head incredulously. “Is there anyone in this city you  _ haven’t  _ pissed off?” 

Mitch smiled ruefully. “Hopefully you?” 

Mitch looked so earnest when he said it. Stiles hemmed and hawed, but he couldn’t deny something so sweet. “Yeah, fine, not me,” he finally agreed, rolling his eyes. 

***

“I want to dance,” Stiles announced, watching the couples waltzing at the center of the ballroom. Mitch looked at him skeptically. 

“Do you know how?”

“Not at all,” Not like that, anyway. Stiles doubted his dance skills would be appreciated here. “But I bet you do.” 

“I do.” Mitch eyed Stiles slyly, not swayed by his pleading puppy eyes. “Fine,” he relented, offering his hand. Stiles happily accept and followed him to the dance floor just as the song was ending. There was a brief break before the next one began, giving them a moment to get in position. The next set started, and Stiles tried his best to keep up with the deceptively quick pace. 

“Don’t watch your feet,” Mitch laughed. He let go of Stiles’ waist to tilt his chin up.

“I don’t want to step on you!”

“You’re doing fine.” Stiles smiled when Mitch spun him. His blood was warm and thrumming with life. The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the champagne or the heat of the room. The light blurred into ribbons around him when Mitch pulled him back in. “Having fun?”

Stiles put his hand back on Mitch’s shoulder and stepped closer than he needed to, until they were almost chest to chest. He could feel every breath between them. “Yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little sad that I had to cut some scenes because they weren't relevant to the plot, but they did have some fun dialogue that I liked. They may make an appearance in the deleted scenes sequel. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked the chapter!
> 
> Edit: All I want for Christmas is comments ~ (plz I beg)

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic in my drafts for 5 months. I have never waited this long to post a fic, but I think in this case it's worth it to have put in the extra effort. it isn't even recognizable from the first draft. I hope you guys enjoy, because this ship has been consuming my life since late September! 
> 
> Comments are very welcome! My lovely beta and I have worked hard on putting a lot of layers into this fic, most of which will be revealed in chapter 2 and 3, and I would love to see any theories or questions.
> 
> Does anyone know how many weeks were between the drowning and killing the Nogitsune? Right now I'm thinking the timeline is around like 10-12 weeks between them drowning and Stiles leaving, but I'm not entirely sure.


End file.
